


Visiting Insanity

by salanaland, VampireBadger



Series: Visitorverse [16]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bleeding Effect, F/M, M/M, Multi, Slow recovery, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 45,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireBadger/pseuds/VampireBadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visitorverse. A mission has gone wrong, and Haytham has been captured. The visitors are racing to rescue him. But with Abstergo holding him in an Animus, will the person they find still be Haytham?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Elena looks down at her phone, and there's no message from her mom there. Nothing. No word from her at all, which is weird because she's  _ here _ . And Elena can't remember the last time her mom came to visit without telling her ahead of time that she'll be there—even if it's just a quick text while she's pulling in, she always tells Elena when she's on her way.

Not this time, and that tells Elena that there has to be something wrong. So she hovers by the doorway of the room where her mom is meeting with Shay—probably templar business, so Elena knows she'll be in a lot of trouble if she's caught eavesdropping.

But it's her mom, and Elena is worried. Right now, she's not a nearly-fully-trained assassin spying on templars, she's just concerned because her mom is acting extremely out of character.

She hears Grace come creeping downstairs, but doesn't turn around until the younger girl says, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Elena says.

"Looks like something."

Elena sighs. "I think something's wrong with my mom," she says. "She came back here all of a sudden and I just… I don't know, I'm worried."

"Was my dad with her?" Grace asks.

"No. Was he supposed to be?"

Grace hesitates. "I'm not supposed to tell assassins what he's doing when he goes away."

But Elena just raises her eyebrows and gives Grace the best older sister look she can muster (and never mind that she's  _ not  _ Grace's sister, because they'd grown up in the same house and shared a bedroom and anyway Elena would fight to protect Grace the same as she would James). Grace lasts an impressive five seconds before caving.

"Dad told me he was going on a mission with your mom," she says. "They've already been gone longer than they were supposed to, and… if she came back by herself…"

Something inside Elena falters, but she manages to stick a smile on her face. "Let's not jump to conclusions," she says. "I'm sure he's fine."

Judging by the look on her face, Grace is not at all sure. But to be fair, Elena isn't at all sure, either. "Should we ask her?" Grace asks.

"No," Elena says. "Um—you stay here, okay?"

"Where are you going?"

"Upstairs," Elena says, and hurries away. They've been in this safe house about six months, which is more than enough time for her to have figured out all the best ways to listen in on conversations—for example, the room her mom and Shay are in lies right under the upstairs bathroom, and the sound carries straight up through the vent. Elena hurries there now, locks the door behind her, and crouches over the vent.

The room is small enough that the conversation echoes, and Elena doesn't have to try very hard to pick up on what's going on.

"…let him go in by himself in the first place?" Shay is saying. His voice shakes, and Elena frowns—it's impossible to tell if that's just a weird effect of the vents, or if he's horribly upset.

"Have you ever tried to stop him from doing something he wanted to do?" Elena's mom asks. "He's a stubborn man—and on top of that he's the grand master. He said he was going in, I wasn't about to argue."

"You should have!"

"Well I didn't know they'd capture him, did I?"

This last bit is so loud Elena thinks she could have heard it, even without the vent—she leans back, away from it, eyes wide and hands clasped over her mouth, as if trying to distance herself from the news.  _ No _ . That's—no, that's her grandpa.

"We can fix this," Shay says, after a very long pause.

"They were waiting for us," Lucy says. "Someone was sloppy, they leaked information, or turned traitor, or… I don't know, but the point is they knew we would be there and they shouldn't have. They'll have him well guarded, and I used to work at Abstergo. I know how well they can guard a person when they don't want them to escape."

"Did it seem like they know who he is?" Shay asks.

"No," Lucy says. "I overheard some of what the guards were saying. They know we've been targeting them, and they're starting to figure out we're probably not assassins."

Shay curses.

"But I don't think they've figured out the whole story." She sighs. "Or—they hadn't then. I don't know—"

"Haytham won't tell them anything," Shay says. "He won't."

After this, the two of them launch into a discussion of… of how long he'll be able to hold out under torture, and Elena leaves the bathroom when she can't stand to listen to it any longer. Technically, she knows, this is templar business. She's not supposed to know about it, much less do anything to help, but fuck  _ that _ , he's her grandpa. This is more important than assassins and templars.

She ticks through a mental checklist of all the people that are at the safe house right now, trying to figure out which one would be the best to take this news to. Not her dad, he'll be upset and he won't react quickly enough. Not Aveline for the same reason. Not Connor, he's got such a weird relationship with his dad, he'd probably just freeze up. Ezio's out with Edward—

Elena runs into Altair before she can get to the end of her list, and rolls her eyes because really, he should have been right at the top. He'll probably be mad at her for listening, but he'll also do everything he can to get Elena's grandpa back. And he'll be able to make everyone else  _ listen _ , and then get them moving quickly.

He listens as she blurts out the whole story, and to Elena's surprise doesn't say anything at all about how she's not supposed to be eavesdropping on templar conversations. Or not templar conversations that take place inside the safe house, because it's not going to stay a safe house for long if they can't even trust each other, is it?

"Thank you for bringing this to me," he says, giving Elena a little squeeze on the shoulder.

"We're going to help mom and Shay get him back," Elena says. "Aren't we?"

He gives her a look that's all flint and hard edges. Coming from anyone else (although Elena can't quite imagine a look like this coming from anyone  _ but  _ Altair) it might have scared Elena. She's not scared now, she's actually calm. Because in that look, she sees the absolute certainty that the people that took Haytham are going to give him back. "Of course we will,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

Shay and Aveline always get the largest bed at whatever safehouse they happen to be living at; it's been some years since Haytham last slept apart from them, and the extra space is good to have when two big men are sharing a bed with a woman who can only sleep with her knees bent. They'd counted themselves lucky to have this king-size bed, even if it sags a bit in the middle. But now it seems too large for just Shay and Aveline, clinging to each other at one edge, joined in their loneliness as in everything else.

"Are you sure it's Abstergo that's got him?" Aveline asks Shay for what seems the hundred thousandth time.

"It was an Abstergo facility we attacked," Shay tells her, yet again.

"And they definitely didn't kill him?" she asks, as always.

"They took him alive," Shay answers. The usual. "They probably wouldn't kill him until they learned everything they could from him." It makes his stomach churn to think of how they might try to get information from Haytham. To think of his Grand Master, his lover, his friend, his visitor, subject to the worst they can do.

Aveline wrinkles her nose. "And when they find him uncooperative?"

Shay sighs heavily. "Anyone can be broken. Even Haytham, stubborn as he is."

Aveline asks lightly, "How do you think they'll get him to do something he doesn't want to do, considering it took us literally decades to get him into bed, which he very much wanted?"

Shay shakes his head. "They'll do terrible things, and you know it. And if that doesn't work, they'll go after us, or Grace, or Connor, or Desmond. He will tell them everything to save someone he loves. And you know Abstergo, they'll stop at nothing to get what they want. And they have Pieces of Eden, they have the Animus, they--"

Aveline sits upright. "You think they'd put him in an Animus?"

Shay shrugs. "Well, sure. It's a way for them to get at his memories. They could see who's working with him, they could make him relive bad memories to torture him, they could--"

"Owen!" Aveline interrupts. "If he's in an Animus, couldn't Owen reach him?"

"We'd have to ask Desmond if that's possible. And Rebecca."

"But it might work," she presses, snuggling closer into his embrace, her back to the unoccupied expanse of bed.

"It might," Shay agrees, kissing her forehead.

“We have to find him,” Aveline insists. “We just have to.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, they have to tell her something. Grace already knows her dad isn't coming back, she knows something's gone wrong. But no one will tell her why and she doesn't know if it's because she's just a kid or because she's not an assassin or because she's not a templar. Which is dumb because he's her dad and they have to tell her, right? They have to tell her if he's not coming back...

And finally they seem to realize this, even though it takes way too long. Maman and Papa sit her down and tell her that Abstergo (the big bad bogeyman of her childhood) has her dad captive. They have her dad, and they have him in an  _ animus _ .

"The same thing Elena tried to use last year?" Grace asks. "The one that made her go crazy?"

"Yes," Maman says. Papa says nothing, just stares at the table between them and squeezes his hands together until his knuckles go white.

"But—why would they do that?" Neither of them answers her, so after a horrible, painful silence Grace asks again, her voice rising. "Why do they  _ do  _ that to him, don't they know it's going to make him crazy? Don't they know—"

"Of course they do," Maman says. Her voice is quiet and patient. "That's why they put him in."

"To hurt him?" Grace asks. "But—they don't even want anything out of him? Not even like when they took Desmond to see everyone else's memories?" She's not exactly sure why that's such a big deal, why it matters. But at least there would be a point to that, it wouldn't just be hurting for the sake of hurting. There's something scary about that, something Grace doesn't like.

"It's possible they want something from him," Maman says. She sounds doubtful. "But… it doesn't seem likely, based on what we've been able to find out."

Grace considers this. The next logical question is what they're going to do next, how they're going to get him back. But Grace is half afraid they'll tell her it's impossible. She doesn't want to hear that Dad's not coming back. There's another question that's eating away at her mind, so she asks that one instead.

"Papa?"

He raises his eyes from the table to look at her, and tries to look strong.

"Papa, I thought you said…I know the Abstergo people are the bad guys, but I thought they used to be templars. So how come they're not like you and Dad and Lucy? You guys would  _ never  _ do that, so why…?"

"They're filth," Papa spits, voice filled with a bitter venom that almost makes him seem like a stranger. Maman puts her hand on his shoulder, which only seems to calm him down a little. And Grace thinks the pair of them look so lonely without Dad there too. He should be there, on Papa's other side, helping him to feel better just like Maman is. Papa takes a breath. "They never understood what it means to be a templar," he tells Grace. "They think they  _ are  _ templars, they think they're doing the right thing."

"They're wrong," Grace says. She's so mad at these people, suddenly. These strangers she's never met. Grace is bad at fighting, she doesn't like violence, but suddenly she wants the bad guys that hurt her dad to just  _ die _ . She shakes in her chair and suddenly stands up from it. This is the first time she'd ever really, honestly wanted anyone dead. It doesn't feel good, it barely feels like  _ her _ . But they're hurting her dad. Just because they want to. Just because they can. It's sick and scary and these are bad, bad people. Grace makes a little squeaking noise and runs off.

She wants to be alone, but that's next to impossible in this house. There's people in every room (but none of them are her dad), so Grace goes out back, into the tiny yard behind the house. It's overgrown with weeds, because no one has the time to make it look nice. Grace is hoping no one will be there, but she runs straight into Grandpa.

He looks absolutely miserable. Grace feels absolutely miserable. She hugs Grandpa before she can stop herself. "What if we can't get him back?" she asks.

Grandpa is a lot of things, not all of them good, but he's the best hugger Grace knows. He wraps his arms around her now, and Grace almost feels safe. "I don't know."

"Do you think we will?"

"I…hope so."

"He's in an animus," Grace says. "Like Elena was."

Grandpa nods.

"So is he in your head?" Grace asks. "Like Elena was in Desmond's?"

For a long moment, Grandpa looks frozen. Grace has never seen him so still. "I can't stop thinking about it," he admits. "I hope…I really hope he's in some other ancestor's memories. Someone in his mother's family. Or  _ my  _ father or mother, maybe." He laughs, drily. "I hope he's in my father's head, stuck on that goddamn sheep farm."

Grace doesn't point out that he's not supposed to say that word. "Why?" she asks instead.

Grandpa holds her tighter. Almost too tight, but Grace is realizing that he might need her comfort more than she needs his. "Because the biggest problem my father had was me," he says. "He lived a boring life, doing a boring job. But he wasn't me, he didn't have his heart broken, not even once. He didn't have to see all his friends die, didn't watch his life fall apart because he was too much of a fool to do anything to stop it."

"Grandpa—"

He makes a miserable sound. "Your dad shouldn't be in my memories, Grace. He shouldn't be feeling what I felt."

"Maybe he's not," Grace says. "Maybe he's with the sheep."

"I hope so," Grandpa says. Only it doesn't sound like he has much hope at all, really.

-//-

Time goes by. Lots of times. Weeks. Grace has no idea why they haven't moved yet. Her dad's being held hostage by people that can literally look through his memories to find out any piece of information they want, safe house locations included. But everyone's been kind of odd, since he was taken. She thinks maybe they're  _ hoping  _ Abstergo will come.

That's what Grace is hoping for, anyway. She wants Abstergo to show up and get their  _ asses _ kicked by her parents and their friends, because they could totally do it. And then they can find out where Dad is, and go save him—

But this is where Grace's fantasy ends, because… well, what happens next? Even if he's back with them, he won't be the same. He won't be the same dad. He'll be broken into pieces, like Elena was when she used the animus. But Elena had been in there half an hour, and dad's been gone a week and a half already. And Grace has heard the stories. Grandpa told her all about what Desmond was like when he was bleeding—she'd been six or seven and the stories had given her nightmares for a week. She'd gone into bed with her parents every night. Looking back at it, now that she's had The Talk, and knows what the three of them do in bed together, she thinks how hard that must have been on them. But Dad had hugged her close and she'd dreamed good dreams with his steady warmth at her back.

Grace bites her lip and blinks back tears. Better not to think about it right now. If Dad was here, he'd tell her to take things one thing at a time. Don't get upset about things that haven't happened yet, just do what you can to prepare and be ready for whatever happens. She can stay strong for him, and when he gets home he'll be proud of her. Unless he doesn't remember who she is. Or who he is.

It's very hard, Grace thinks dully, to stay positive in a situation like this. In an effort to distract herself, she turns back to her homework. English—she's supposed to have  _ Macbeth  _ read and annotated by Monday, and she keeps getting stuck on the part where Macbeth's wife keeps scrubbing her hands for some spot that's not there, and then she starts wondering if Dad's going to be like that when he comes home. Grace reads the passage three times, then forces herself to skip ahead and read something else. It's not like she really knows what's going on anyway. Shakespeare is hard, and Dad promised he was going to help…

Something hits her in the back of the head and Grace spins around, itching for an excuse to yell at someone. But it's James, and her harsh words die unspoken on her lips. He doesn't know what happened to his Grandpa, he's too little to understand. As far as he knows, everything's normal. Just another mission that got extended too long.

Grace bends down to pick up the thing that had hit her in the head, and finds a toy dinosaur about the size of her pinkie finger. She looks back over at James. "Why did you throw a dinosaur at me?"

"The dinosaurs are attacking!" James informs her. "We have to stop them!"

"I don't have time to play dinosaur wars today," Grace says, dropping the toy into his hand.

"But Grace!" he drags her name out for five or six seconds, whining. "The pirates need our help!"

"I'm busy," she says, gesturing to the homework she hasn't really been doing. "You know the rules, homework before dinosaur wars."

"I did  _ my  _ homework already."

"You're in Kindergarten," she says. "Your homework's easy."

James pouts, and Grace turns back to  _ Macbeth _ . For a minute she thinks she's managed to send James away, and her thoughts wander away from homework and back to worrying about Dad. She spends a couple minutes dwelling on this, and then realizes there's a little toy pirate creeping along the far edge of the table in her general direction.

Grace looks up at it blankly. Now that she's paying attention, she can see the top of James's head peeking over the table as he guides the little pirate toy toward her in the world's lamest puppet show.

"Grace!" he calls, in a high pitched voice that is probably supposed to sound like it's coming from the pirate. "Come save us from the evil dinosaurs, Grace!"

With his other hand, he brings a dinosaur up to table level and marches it toward the pirate—Grace watches James bang the two toys together like they're fighting. Then the pirate falls over and James gives a dramatic, drawn out death rattle, followed by a farting noise.

He laughs from under the table and flops onto his back, apparently pleased with his own performance.

Grace sighs, a smile twitching along the edges of her mouth. She leans across the table to pick up the abandoned dinosaur. "James?"

"He's not here right now," James informs her. "Just dinosaurs and pirates."

"Yea?" She drops the dinosaur over the edge of the table so it lands on his stomach. "I think the dinosaurs' forces found you."

"No!" James jumps to his feet. "Come on, Grace, we have to stop them before they take over the whole house! Please?"

"Well…"

Something about this feels wrong. It's not exactly like Grace thinks her dad would want her to be miserable the whole time he's gone. But something in the back of her mind keeps whispering reminders that there's this huge thing that's  _ missing  _ from her life, and she shouldn't be doing anything else until she fixes it. She can't focus on school, can't play stupid games with James, until Dad's home again.

Something in her aches.

"Grace," James calls. "Come on!" He's run to the door, clearly expecting her to follow, but Grace is still by the table, frowning and thinking how everything is wrong. He runs back and tugs at her shirt. "Come on, come on! Grace, we have to fight the dinosaurs!"

She sighs a little and takes his hand in hers before he tears a hole in her shirt. "Alright," she says. "Let's go, then."

James cheers. "The pirates are gonna be so excited," he tells her, and for the next hour they wage war against little plastic dinosaurs, using little plastic pirates. And for an hour—well, Grace doesn't exactly forget her troubles, but they weigh on her a little less.

And the pirates  _ totally  _ kick dinosaur ass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins after the end of [Homecoming chapter 33](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5599084/chapters/13535890).

It took Abstergo two days with the corpse-sniffing dogs to find Juhani Otso Berg's battered body under a stack of dilapidated wooden pallets, where it had been hidden well. Almost professionally, if body hiding were a profession.

Suspicion naturally fell on the Assassins. Who else had cause to want him dead?

When his DNA was run through an Animus, the researcher who viewed it had to spend several weeks in counseling, so awful was his death. So it took some time to get a good screenshot of the man who had beaten him to death with brutal precision.

Then there was the small matter that the man didn't exist. Abstergo's sophisticated face-matching software came up with about a hundred matches from state driver's license and ID records, but when viewed by a human, none of them was correct.

The real breakthrough came when Berg's teammate, Violet da Costa, had time to view the footage immediately preceding his death. Hearing Berg's soft murmur of "Shay" before he fired the rifle sent her to the Sample 1 research team and from there to the Sample 17 team. And they agreed: the face of Berg's attacker indisputably and inexplicably belonged to Haytham Kenway, who had died in 1781.

da Costa sent this news up the command chain with trepidation such as she rarely experienced. Her only lead for Berg's killer was a man long dead, and a Templar Grand Master at that. Why would he kill Berg, and how would he even have the chance?

Further analysis of the last hour of Berg's life showed that Grand Master Kenway was one of a group of four people Berg had shot at, and the Sample 1 and 17 teams were able to identify the other three as Shay Cormac, Aveline de Grandpré, and Kenway's son Connor. This led to the inescapable conclusion that not only was Berg's killer one of at least four people from the past somehow here in modern times, but that he was (again!) working with Assassins, and this time had dragged Cormac with him. da Costa raised the possibility that the Assassins had some sort of cloning capability similar to Abstergo's Phoenix Project, but it was considered improbable, their facilities too scattered and under attack from Abstergo.

Meanwhile, Assassin-style attacks on Abstergo rose dramatically. Some of the Templars who fell had very thin, deep lacerations of the heart or other vital organs, suggesting that they'd been killed by the Assassins' Hidden Blades. But try as they might, Abstergo was never able to catch the Assassins responsible. It seemed that there were at least two distinct teams, one of which had a penchant for lighting Abstergo warehouses on fire. (If da Costa had been consulted, she would have pointed out that dead Templars known to have used Hidden Blades could have been responsible.)

Of course, the executive team at Abstergo wanted to make contact with two legendary Templars, and sent out teams looking for them. But every time, the trail ran cold or became hopelessly tangled with Assassins', and they were forced to give it up as a bad job. Whether Cormac and Kenway were actually working with the Assassins, they couldn't tell, but it couldn't be ruled out. Standing orders were to capture but not kill any man with long dark hair and Hidden Blades.

When a team defending a top secret facility brought in an unconscious man matching this description, he was placed in an Animus for interrogation. And in his recent memories, they found gold: meetings with Shay Cormac and others, plans to destroy Abstergo, living with legendary Assassins, and some extremely personal interactions, both with Cormac and with one of the Assassins. Given all this, they decided to pursue a rather more aggressive path with him than they otherwise would with a rogue Templar.

There was disagreement, of course, as to the best course of action. Some advocated for killing him outright, arguing that his loyalty was so hopelessly tied up with his family and lovers that he could never be swayed to the Abstergo cause. Others thought that with the proper Daniel Cross-style conditioning he could be brought into the fold. Still others supported using him as a hostage for concessions from his band of supposed Templars, perhaps in conjunction with the previous plan. And still others thought eventually he would crack and reveal more information.

So they kept him imprisoned, and the only way they could guarantee he would stay that way was by keeping him immobilized in an Animus. It was determined that the best candidate memories to subject him to were those of his father, the pirate and Assassin Edward Kenway. So he was started on a program of reliving his father's memories, interspersed with some of his own that were of particular interest to Abstergo. Meanwhile, they beefed up security on the facility where he was being held. The last thing they needed was a rescue attempt.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this chapter was written by Riona.

_ This safe house, the one they're staying in now, has a fireplace. Not many of the places they stay do, but he really appreciates the rare exception. There's just something about a roaring fire that is infinitely homier than central heating, particularly on freezing cold evenings like this one. And home is a perfect description for this place, at the moment. The television is on but no one is really watching it. There’s the quiet drone of a local news anchor. Aveline's fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder, and Shay's on the other end of the couch with Geraldine. They're talking too quietly for Haytham to make out the words, but Shay is smiling and Geraldine is laughing. _

_ Desmond is on the floor with Elena a few feet away, leaning over a handheld game console so Elena can show off some new Pokemon trick she'd learned from Clay. Connor is nodding off on a chair close to the fire (but only after protesting at great length that of course he's not tired). And Grace… _

_ He looks down and his breath catches. He'll never get used to the way she looks in his arms, the way her tiny mouth sucks at the bottle. His little girl is beautiful, she's more than he ever could have hoped for. She's his chance to finally get it right, to be the father that a child of his deserves. _

_ He cradles her closer, gentle and reverent as he would hold the world's greatest treasure. _

-

Haytham knows he's in an animus, of course. After an endless nightmare spent reliving some of the worst moments of his own life, Haytham had found himself abruptly in his father's skin. In his  _ mind _ . And no matter how hard he tries, he can't get out. Which is terrifying, but Haytham keeps flashing back to the months Desmond had spent in the animus, how broken and confused he'd been the entire time. Haytham does not want to end up like that. He is terrified of forgetting who he is.

And he can already feel it starting. Not all at once, nothing so dramatic as that. Just—just little bits and pieces, like someone's chipping away at his mind and replacing it with bits of someone else. Haytham knows he has to relive his father's memories, that's the point of the animus. Failure or refusal to try both lead to him being kicked back to a loading screen, which is oddly painful and distinctly uncomfortable.

It's not so much going through his father's memories that's uncomfortable. He's seen a lot of them through visiting already, anyway. But—sometimes he'll just catch himself thinking something, and know it belongs to his father, not to him. Or he'll blink and be… somewhere. Doing something he wouldn't have done without his father's influence taking up space in his head.

He's bleeding, and it's only going to get worse.

-

_ The room is warm, and nearly quiet. A gentle murmur of background noise fills up the space without being obnoxious, but the people around him aren't saying much. They don't need to—perhaps some families would have insisted on conversation, but everyone here is comfortable with each other. They are family, and the they don't need to talk to know that they care for one another. It is enough to simply be. Together. _

_ His daughter is in his arms. His beautiful little girl. His saving Grace. He holds her to his chest, and smiles. _

_ -/ _

Owen arrives in the middle of a memory of a sea battle. His mouth is set in a grim line, and he looks absurdly out of place in his twenty first century clothes. Haytham gapes at him, not quite understanding, until his lack of attention sends the  _ Jackdaw  _ into the path of a broadside, and sinks her.

The mission fails, the world begins to dissolve back into that damnable loading screen, and Haytham feels a sharp, sudden spike of pain in his chest at the thought of his ship lying wrecked at the bottom or the sea. Then he remembers that it's not his ship, it's not even real, just a memory.

He looks desperately at Owen, and realizes he's shaking. He can't stop. "You're here," he says, and it's possibly the most inane thing he's ever said in his life.

"Desmond sent me," Owen says. "He said you needed help."

A tiny flame of hope ignites in Haytham's chest. "Where is he?" he asks. "Is he coming?"

"Um…" Owen glances away. "He's working on it, I think. They all are. But it's easier to get data into a computer than a group of people into a secure facility. Sorry."

The hope flickers and dies. "I understand," he says. "But you're here to help?"

"Right," Owen says. "As much as I can. Desmond said they've got some intel about you being in an animus and… well, obviously that's true, so we figured that me coming in would be the best thing for you, short of an actual rescue—"

"You're right," Haytham says. "I need help." It burns him to admit it. He knows what victims of the bleeding effect look like. Speaking to people that aren't there, too confused to figure out where they are or when they are or  _ who  _ they are. He has pitied them, and it's a horrible blow to his pride, to stand here and think of others directing that same pity toward him.

Owen half smiles. "That's what I'm here for," he says. "I've been doing this for ages, I have some ideas that might help—"

Haytham holds up a hand. "Just don't lie to me," he says. "Please, that's all I ask. When—if—if I start losing my mind,  _ tell  _ me. Don't indulge me, don't let anything slide. If I start acting strangely, I just… I want to know."

"Are you sure?" Owen asks. "Sometimes it's easier not to know."

"You're here to help me," Haytham says, half begging now. "Aren't you?"

"There are other ways—"

"I have to know!"

Owen stares at him, considering. Then he nods. Haytham has about a second to be relieved by this promise, and then Owen says, "Your accent."

"What?"

"Halfway through that big speech of yours," Owen says. "You just started sounding really—well, Welsh."

_ Jaysus _ , and he hadn't even noticed. Haytham presses his fingers to his head, and wishes he had a drink.

-

_ The scene around him is blurry and smudged—like a picture drawn in chalk that someone has half rubbed away. He is half aware of people gathered around him, of a feeling of warmth and belonging that comes with them. But he can't focus on details, can't bring their features into focus, can't see their faces or hear their voices. It's all just one long, low, drawn out murmur, blending with a crackling fire nearby into an indistinguishable blur. _

_ Only Grace is clear, and he clings to her because she is terrified of losing her the way he is slowly losing the rest of the scene. He has a funny feeling that the people around him had been as important as the child cradled in his arms but he just—can't focus, can't remember, can't… he can't… _

_ But Grace is someone he has to protect. He has a responsibility. To protect her. To keep her safe. To not  _ forget  _ her. _

-

Owen doesn't have as much control over this animus as the one he's been living in for the past several years. This animus, like his animus, has a basic test program. An 'animus island,' but it's far less impressive than the one Haytham has heard Desmond and Clay describe. This one is small, barely a score of paces from one end to the other. Still, Owen has done what he can to make it feel safe—Haytham is also grateful to see he's tried to make it seem as different as possible from the Caribbean islands he's been exploring in his father's memories. It's colder here, and the plants look different—honestly, it reminds Haytham of sailing the North Atlantic in the  _ Morrigan  _ with Shay, and that's a help.

And so is Owen. He can be strange, but he knows what he's doing. He can't quite keep Haytham on Animus Island all the time (he doesn't have enough power for that, not here), but he pulls Haytham out every time he thinks he's just about to crack completely. He takes Haytham out of his borrowed memories and back into his own skin. Then they'll just stand around on the Island for a while and talk. Just talk.

"Pick a memory," Owen tells him, fairly early on. "Something important, something that makes you feel like you. And imagine sort of… packing it up, sealing it away inside your head where the animus can't get at it."

"Why?" Haytham asks. "The animus is taking bites from my mind already, why do I have to do the same?"

"Because the animus will take everything you have, if you let it," Owen says. "Trust me, it can and it will. I don't have a single memory from before I died. I don't even have my own name—do you want to end up like me?"

Absolutely not.

"So pick a memory," Owen urges again. "Lock it away. And when things get really bad, take it out and look at it again. Use that memory to remember who you really are."

Haytham thinks for a while. Nothing with his father—given his current circumstances, that seems a poor choice. But the rest of his family, he wants to remember them. He closes his eyes, and thinks of a cold evening in front of a roaring fire, holding his daughter, knowing his sons and his lovers are close by.

And then he seals it away, as Owen had told him. Locks it away from where the animus can reach.

Or he tries to, anyway. The thing is, a task like this should have been easy. Haytham had spent an entire lifetime repressing his feelings, pushing back exactly this kind of memory. If he'd been put in an animus during his first life, Haytham would have had no trouble at all. But…

But in this life, he has found love, and happiness. There is less and less reason to repress what he feels, and Haytham has… not exactly forgotten how, but fallen out of practice. So when Owen asks him to seal this memory away, Haytham finds that he can't quite do it. No matter how hard he tries to keep the animus away from that warm, bright evening, he can't.

Weeks crawl past. The animus takes its toll. Some days are good, some bad—sometimes he knows exactly who he is, and he can tell by the genuine brightness in Owen's smile that he's doing well. But some days he wakes, convinced he is his father, and no matter how hard Owen argues with him, he refuses to be convinced.

Many days fall in between these two extremes. Haytham will spend hours and hours fighting to keep a hold of his sanity, fighting to grasp something that slips unstoppably away. And every time he tries to go back to his carefully preserved memory (in the desperate hope that it will remind him who he is), he finds it a little less clear, a little more full of holes. Details fade. Faces. Names. And Haytham thinks maybe he is slipping away with it.

-

_ Edward has never been too good with kids. Never liked 'em much. They're like… like weird little people that smell bad and throw up on you when you least expect it. Sort of like tiny pirates, actually, now he comes to think about it. _

_ But there's something about this girl. Edward… he feels like he should know her, like she's important. He holds her tight, terrified of losing her but not sure why, and searches her face for a hint of something familiar. But he doesn't know her. Does he? _

_ Something inside him does. Something in him lights up at the sight of her, glows with a kind of proud happiness that doesn't seem to belong to  _ Edward _. Which is a stupid thought, because who else would it belong to? _

_ He holds her close, rocking her gently to watch her eyes blink sleepily.  _ Grace,  _ something in him tells him.  _ Her name is Grace, and I wasn't supposed to forget her, I have to remember—

_ But Edward doesn't remember. He doesn't know who she is or where she'd come from. He doesn't know why he can't make himself let her go, or why he melts a little whenever she looks his way. The only thing he knows, with absolute certainty, is that she is important. _

_-//-_

Haytham is losing more of himself every day. It’s easy to see, difficult to watch. Owen feels he’s fighting a hopeless battle.

He’s dealt with hopeless cases before, of course. But normally he has plenty of people to look after, everyone who’s lost themselves while playing a Helix game. He can distract himself from his failures with the successes.

Right now, in the Abstergo system, there’s just Haytham. And Owen’s not sure how much longer that name will fit him.

_ In the Abstergo system.  _ Maybe that’s the answer. If Abstergo put Haytham in an Animus, they want information. Somewhere in this system there are going to be recordings of his sessions. Maybe some of Haytham’s memories, not just Edward’s.

Haytham can’t look through the data here as easily as Owen can – he’s too tied to the simulation of his physical body, and it’s best not to force him away from that anchor to reality when he’s struggling to remember who he is – so he won’t be able to watch the recordings himself, but Owen can find some of Haytham’s memories, describe them to him, try to help him remember them. It might do something to bring him back.

So Owen goes looking.

Eventually he pins down the recordings. The filenames are all preceded by  _ EK _ or  _ HK _ , which at least makes it easier to find the memories that are specifically Haytham’s, but apart from the initials they’re just numbers. Still, all of the recordings are accompanied by plain text files, some Animus researcher’s notes on the contents.

He opens one of the notes.

_ Haytham Kenway, 2016. New York. Subject enters clothing store. Desynchronizes three times by trying to buy a hat when in reality he bought nothing. Can be deleted for space. _

Doesn’t sound like a striking enough memory to be of use here. He looks through a couple more.

_ Haytham Kenway, 2018. Safehouse, location unknown. Subject cooks and eats breakfast. Two sausages, two rashers of bacon, baked beans, fried tomato, fried mushrooms, scrambled eggs. Edward Kenway (see DotC/PoN resources) steals both sausages. Can be deleted for space. _

_ Haytham Kenway, 2022. Incomplete memory. This is November 19, the date of the major Abstergo data breach. Seems Kenway and Shay Cormac (see Berg’s collection, Subject 1 files) were behind it. Subject keeps deliberately desynchronizing so we can’t see how it was done. Come back to this one. Keep. _

And then...

_ Haytham Kenway, 2019. Safehouse, location unknown. Forgive my unprofessionalism, but what the fuck? Might be useful after Erudito disaster with Liberation – let’s see them explain away their precious Aveline de Grandpré getting this close to two Templars. Don’t know whether Abstergo is ready to enter the ‘adult entertainment’ market; might make most sense to release this anonymously onto the net. Definite keep. _

Something is prickling the back of Owen’s imaginary neck. He doesn’t want to open this recording.

_ Two _ Templars? And in Haytham’s memories?

He shouldn’t have this – this strange combination of fear and fascination and longing. He’s supposed to be  _ over _ them. He’s not some pitiful combination of Aveline and Shay any more; he’s his own person. He’s Owen.

He opens the file.

It stings more than it should, watching Haytham with Aveline and Shay. It’s not as painful as it would have been once; there was a time when this would have destroyed him. But it’s not easy.

Owen used to help himself deal with his love for Aveline and Shay by reminding himself it was hopeless. They were happy with each other; they didn’t want another person in their relationship. Yearning for them was like yearning to grow wings. There was no point dwelling on how much he wanted something that could never, ever happen.

And now it turns out that they ended up taking another person into their bed. It just... wasn’t him.

There are more recordings of Haytham with Shay, with Aveline, with both of them together. Kissing, or talking, or sleeping together, literally and euphemistically.

Owen watches them all. At some point, he’s aware, this probably passes ‘trying to help Haytham’ and ends up at ‘invasion of privacy’, but he can’t stop.

When he drags himself out of the file system and returns to his simulated body on the island, he’s shaking.

-

“There you are!” Haytham exclaims, when he sees Owen. “Can I go home yet? I mean, I know who I am.”

“You’re imprisoned,” Owen reminds him. “Your friends are trying to get you home, but for now all we can do is try to keep your head on straight. And where is ‘home’ to you?”

“The  _ Jackdaw _ ,” Haytham says. “The ocean. Where else?”

Owen sighs. He feels... very, very tired. “Please try to remember. You’re not Edward. You’re Haytham.”

“You’ve said that name before,” Haytham says. “You’ve still got the wrong man.”

Owen generates a couple of tree stumps and sits down on one, gesturing for Haytham to take the other. “Haytham, I’ve been looking through some of your memories. I’m going to describe a scenario to you, and I’d like you to try to find the memory of it in your own mind. I promise this is something that happened to you.”

Haytham rolls his eyes, but he sits.

“You’re in a safehouse,” Owen says. “It’s early 2020. You’re reading some papers on the couch. Altaïr is on the carpet, helping Connor repair his hidden blade. Connor’s your son, you remember?”

“I don’t have a son,” Haytham says. “And I’d name him after someone more fun if I did. Connor’s fine as Assassins go, but he’s a bit miserable.”

“Aveline comes in and asks you what you’re reading,” Owen says. He’s watching the waves lapping on the shore; he needs something neutral to focus on. “You tell her it’s Templar business and it’s not for her to know. Aveline – she kisses you as a distraction and tries to steal the papers. I don’t think she expects it to work. You’re embarrassed, you remind her that Connor is there. Aveline laughs and kisses you again—”

His throat seems to close up as he’s speaking. When he meets Haytham’s eyes, he’s startled by the anger there.

“That memory was not for you to see,” Haytham says.

“So you remember it?” Owen asks, quickly. “I mean, you remember it as yours?”

Haytham hesitates. “If coming back to myself means having someone go through my most personal memories...”

“Abstergo put you in an Animus,” Owen says. “People are going to be going through your memories either way. If this helps you keep hold of who you are, it’s worth it.”  _ And you’re not the only person being hurt by this, _ he doesn’t say. “Come on. Let’s focus on getting you back to yourself, and then we can get you back to – to Shay and Aveline.”


	6. Chapter 6

She can't keep away, can't keep herself from the heavily guarded room or its occupant. She has to flash her badge every time, has to invent imaginary computer problems and upgrades to gain access. And when she does, her nerves thrumming with hatred, she always has to stop a moment to take in the view.

It seems impossible that the twitching man lying helpless in the old-style Animus--practically an antique--could have destroyed her life so thoroughly.

She looks at the monitor--it's full of sun and ocean--and angrily logs in to the control panel. This is too pleasant a memory. She knows that the function of these memories is to incapacitate the man reliving them by causing a terrible case of the Bleeding Effect; he's too dangerous to be contained by normal means. And it's torture, but it's not torture _enough_.

She queues up the next memory for when he finishes harpooning sharks. It won't help with causing more Bleeding Effect, but it's a personal favorite of hers.

She has cause to know that the body records genetic memories up to the point of death. When Abstergo recovered her father's remains, they analyzed them for clues to his death. After running his DNA through an Animus, they saw the face of his killer--the face of the man before her. It caused an uproar that involved all the higher-ups and everyone from the Sample 17 team, she's heard.

When she was just a young intern, she snooped around through an unlocked Animus computer late one night. And she saw it, the footage of her father's last moments. She only watched it once, but it was enough, all she needed to fix the face forever in her mind, the face of the man that had literally beaten her father to death.

She didn't really care that everyone was so shocked that a man who'd died in 1781 was alive in the present day. She just knew that she had to do _something_ to avenge her father. She never expected that becoming an Abstergo Animus technician, and a Templar, would actually bring her to his murderer. But here she is, and here he is, at her mercy, and she has none for the likes of him.

"Enjoy, traitor," she whispers with satisfaction as the next memory starts.

The body records genetic memories up to the point of death.

And the body in front of her remembers dying at the hands of its son.

On the screen, that son's face contorts in anger and he readies his blade. In the Animus, Haytham Kenway shudders with dread, tears streaking his face.

It's not enough. It'll never be enough, not while this horrible man, this lying excuse for a Templar, lives and _her father_ is dead. But if she can't have what she wants, Elina Berg is almost satisfied with this opportunity to punish the man she hates more than any other.

-//-

Owen pulls Haytham back to Animus Island as soon as he realizes what's going on, but he has a horrible feeling he's too late. Someone's messing with the animus, forcing it to play memories out of order, sometimes at random, sometimes over and over. Owen had wasted nearly an hour trying to figure out _who_ and _how_ and _why_ before realizing none of that matters—what matters is that Haytham is being forced through a series of memories apparently designed to break him down and make him absolutely miserable.

His own death, three—no, four—times in a row. Edward being gibbeted, pressed into a too small cage and left out in the sun to burn. Edward carrying his friend Mary out of prison as she dies in his arms, then back to Haytham, this time as a child, reliving his father’s murder on repeat…

Owen curses his own inattention and forces Haytham out of the memories. The man shimmers for a second, too confused in his own mind to choose a form. Owen holds his breath—strictly speaking a pointless gesture, given his lack of actual lungs, but it's habit—and prays Haytham will find the right one in the end.

He does. Sort of. After a terrifying thirty seconds, he melts into a child's form. His own, Owen thinks, because he has his own dark hair instead of his father's blonde. But it doesn't feel like a victory, not when Haytham shudders from crying and curls into himself. "I want—I want to go home."

Owen crouches over him, uncomfortably resting a hand on Haytham's shoulder. "Where's home?" he asks. It's a question he feels like he's asked a hundred times since coming here to help Haytham, but it's a good litmus test to find out how badly Haytham is bleeding at any given moment.

This time, there's a long pause before Haytham shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "But it's not _here_." He curls closer to Owen, whispering "I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home…" until the words blur together into meaningless syllables, until he can't keep talking around his crying.

And then—

The world breaks up. For a second, Owen is confused, he has no idea what's going on. Then he realizes it's the code. Someone's messing with the animus again, probably the same person that's been redirecting Haytham into the most painful memories possible. Owen fights it, exerting every effort to hold Haytham to him, but in the end this isn't his animus and he's not strong enough. Haytham is sent back into the memories, and Owen goes diving back into the code.

Whoever this is, they're good. They know what they're doing, and Owen isn't sure he's going to be able to get to Haytham for a while. But damn it all, he's going to _try_. He's no assassin, no templar. He's not a fighter, but this… this is a war no one else can fight as well as he can.

He's going to keep Haytham safe. That's his job, he just needs to keep Haytham safe until his friends (until Shay… and Aveline…) can come back for him. So that's what he's going to do. Whatever it takes.


	7. Chapter 7

He's been counting, and he's watched his sons die twenty eight times in a row without a break. And it's true that Connor had died peacefully as an old man, surrounded by his visitors on the homestead he loved. And yes, Desmond had sacrificed his life (or tried to, anyway) in order to save the world. Both of them are good deaths, as far as they go.

But they are his sons. Reliving it once had been painful, but as the number of repetitions climbs higher, Haytham feels himself filling up with a kind of terrible sadness. He hates watching these memories, he is sick and tired of seeing them again and again and again—

And then Desmond touches the orb, and the world melts around Haytham, and he is somewhere else. Lying in bed between Shay and Aveline, filled head to toe with the kind of peace that only really comes to him in moments like this. Just after sex, lying in bed with people he loves, feeling the press of their bodies against his.

It's almost too good to be true. Haytham blinks several times, waiting for the scene to dissolve and be replaced with something else. But it doesn't, and Haytham feels grateful tears leaking from his eyes. It's been such a long time since he was allowed to see anything good that he almost wants to start sobbing. He doesn't, though, because he certainly hadn't been crying when he lived this moment for the first time, and he doesn't want to risk desynchronizing now and being thrown back into a more painful memory.

For nearly a quarter of an hour, he is able to lose himself in the memory. Aveline—always the last of the three to be satisfied—talks him into another go. They are just finishing when the door creaks open, and Shay scrambles out of bed, reaching for shorts. "Grace," he says.

"Papa, I can't  _ sleep _ —"

"Well, let's see if we can do anything about that," Shay says. "Say goodnight."

He leans over to pick Grace up, and turns slightly so Haytham and Aveline (quickly covering themselves with blankets) are able to see their daughter.

"Goodnight, Maman," Grace says. "Love you, daddy."

"I love you too," Haytham says, and Grace smiles at him as she rests her head on Shay's shoulder.

"We're lucky," Haytham says, when Shay has carried Grace out of the room. "Our daughter… she's amazing."

Aveline nods, and kisses him. Her fingers trace thin patterns across his bare skin, and Haytham shivers with want. "She has a good family," Aveline agrees, kissing him softly. Haytham tilts his head toward her, reveling in the freedom of her embrace. Once, he had denied himself this love, he had turned away from Aveline and Shay and hurt them all. No more. Now he is—

Alone, suddenly, because the bedroom has vanished around him, Aveline is gone, and Haytham is standing in a makeshift camp somewhere in the frontier, melting under Ziio's accusatory glare.

"That is it," she says. "I'm leaving."

Something in Haytham's chest twists, and he can't help looking at her belly, at the place where their son is growing even now. He wants to beg her to stay, he wants to tell her he's learned so much, he knows how to love now. And Connor deserves a father as much as a mother, Haytham wants to be that father, he really does…

But this is nothing but a memory, and Haytham can do none of that. Instead, he draws himself up, stiffly. "If that's how you feel," he says, as if it doesn't matter to him. "Although I can't help thinking you're overreacting."

She gives him a flat, unimpressed look. "You know why I have to leave," she says.

"I—"

And then the scene changes again, and Haytham is back in the bedroom with Aveline, kissing her as she twists around him, pressing close. But it's only a flash, and Haytham is back with Ziio, with the taste of Aveline in his mouth and the feel of her fingers stamped all across his body. He tries again to speak, but again there is that flash, this time to another memory, thrusting against Shay, and again and again, back and forth, until Haytham is back with Ziio, and she's saying "You know why I have to leave," and he  _ does  _ know, of course he knows, he's been so unfaithful to her, replaced her, forgotten her. But he—he'd just wanted love, after a lifetime of denying it, and so he had turned his back on the mother of his child…

He sobs out apologies until he desynchronizes from the memory, and is sent hurtling into another. But he can't calm down, because he can't undo the harm he's done, and he will never be able to do so.

-//-

"That's impressive," the researcher admits, grudgingly. Elina looks up at him and nods, hiding a proud smile. She'd been caught sneaking into Kenway's holding cell to fiddle with the animus, but instead of being punished, as she expected, the researcher that caught her had only asked for a demonstration of what she intended to do. Now he's singing with praises, and Elina half expects him to offer her a job.

"Thank you," she says.

"The way you spliced all those different memories together," the researcher goes on. "Clearly you know your way around an animus."

"I do my best," Elina says, with more modesty than she really feels.

"And your choice of memories is spot on as well," the researcher goes on. "How did you know what combination would be the most effective at keeping him incapacitated?"

"It's all about causing the greatest possible amount of emotional pain," Elina says. Although honestly, keeping him incapacitated is more of a nice bonus than anything—all she really wants is the sight of Kenway in his memories, begging helplessly for the pain to stop.

"But your approach is so  _ creative _ ," the researcher says. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Elina shrugs. "I write fanfiction," she says. She looks up at Kenway, to where he's twitching and spasming on the animus platform. "So I've had practice."


	8. Chapter 8

Shay's picked a neutral site for this meeting; it unfortunately happens to be a very small site, and the Assassins and Templars kind of jostle each other around the hastily assembled table. There's not enough chairs, so nobody sits; they all lean over the table.

"All right," he begins, seeking Aveline in the crowd; when she smiles encouragingly at him he clears his throat and speaks up. "All right," he repeats. "Here we all are, Assassins and Templars working together."

"As Haytham would want," Arno comments.

"Exactly." Shay nods gratefully to him. "So in that spirit of things, let's all stop staring suspiciously at one another, and Ezio, wait until after the meeting to ask Juanita out, please."

Ezio grins and stops whispering with the Templar beside him. "I can't help it, Shay. In my time, most Templars were very ugly, but you and Haytham have assembled a remarkably attractive group of people." He eyes the man standing next to Shay appreciatively, then yelps as Altaïr steps on his foot.

Shay rubs his eyes. "That can wait for later. All right, um, Rebecca? How do I turn this thing on?" He fiddles with the projector, and Rebecca comes up to help him turn it on and focus it on the wall. Someone dims the lights, and Shay fumbles with the laser pointer that, for some reason, they had to buy in a pet store. "So this is the facility that they're holding him in. We've had several different recon missions identifying the guard posts: here, here, here, and here. Plus there's extra guards right outside this room. We think that's where they're holding him, but nobody's been able to make it inside."

"That doesn't look very secure," one of the younger Templars points out. "How is he not breaking out on his own? I mean, this is Grand Master Kenway we're talking about."

"That's a good question," Shay nods to the young woman. "We've received intelligence that they're holding him in an Animus."

"Why doesn't he break out of _that_?"

"Because," Desmond interjects, "he's flat on his back and stuck somewhere in his ancestors' memories. He can't even make himself move like that. Believe me, I've been there."

"That's good in one way," Shay continues, "because we know how to get someone out of an Animus, and it means that physical security is less because they don't expect him to escape. But it's bad in that we don't know how bad off he'll be after whatever they're having him go through. Now, there are automatically locking doors that we need to disable, and Juanita, I need you to lead your team for that. All that electricity stuff is _here_ ," and he circles part of the blueprint with his laser pointer, "and the control room is _here_ , so you can take care of that." Juanita nods, and Shay moves on.

"The guard patrols come from here and move in a clockwise direction, so David, your team will come in through this window and move down the hall, taking out guards here, here, and here. That should clear the floor for the Assassins and Lucy and me to come in through this window and go to Haytham's room by this path, take out the guards in the room, and break in. Rebecca, we have a key card for you, and a small bomb to blow the door in case the key card doesn't work." Rebecca nods, and Shay continues. "Clay should have Haytham ready to get out but you and Lucy need to make sure he's disengaged right to avoid damaging his brain any more than it already is.” He sighs sadly, and Aveline comes forward to squeeze his hand. 

Shay takes a deep breath as Aveline returns to her place at the table, and continues. “If we get tied up fighting, the most important people on this mission that need to get through are Rebecca, Lucy, and Edward. Rebecca and Lucy to get Haytham out of the Animus safely, and Edward to be there for him and help him out. We don't know what sort of mental state he'll be in, but he should respond positively to his father." He looks directly at Aveline, his face troubled. "If anyone else gets hurt, we pull them out, we go on. If Rebecca or Lucy gets hurt, the other one should be able to take over. The backups for Edward are Desmond and me. If all of us are taken out, then abort the mission. Pull back and regroup." He sighs heavily. "Hopefully it won't come to that.

"Exit plan is simple. Go out the way you came in. If it's blocked, there are additional exits here and here. Templars, regroup here. Assassins, take Haytham home and I'll come home after meeting with the Templars. Let me know how Haytham is doing so we know how successful we were. All right, any questions?"

They spend an hour going over specifics of guards, automatic doors, the best paths through the facility, lines of sight, and the like. Shay reminds the Templars to ensure their guns are in good working order, then dismisses them with a reminder of when they're going to meet up for the mission. Aveline comes back up to hug Shay and give him a tender kiss.

"You did wonderfully, my dear," she tells him, and he grins, a little abashed.

"It feels so strange to give _you_ orders. I hope you don't mind?"

Aveline shakes her head and kisses him again. "Not at all. It's your mission. And I can't think of anyone who'd lead this mission better than you."

Shay holds her close. "Let's hope I lead it successfully."

* * *

Connor lays out everything he'll need on the edge of the sink: ponytail holder, comb, clippers, razor, shaving cream. The last time he did this, all he used was a knife. And traditionally, he should have ripped out his hair with his bare hands. But times change.

He carefully parts his hair and ties it up on top of his head. Then he takes the clippers, cleans Desmond's hair out of them, and goes to work. Next is the shaving cream, which he eyes dubiously before applying it to the shorn hair. And then the razor, a five-bladed plastic monstrosity that his father usually uses on his face. Connor, of course, has never needed one, and it takes him a while to get the hang of the thing, the right pressure against his scalp. But he finishes, finally, remembering the last time he did this, contemplating how different a state of mind he's in. He rinses the last of the shaving cream and stray hair bits from his scalp and adjusts the band for his remaining hair.

It is odd to think that his warrior's scalp-lock will pass unremarked these days, that the hairstyle is all that most know of his people and yet no longer exclusive to them. It means little to most, but it means everything to him, and so he runs his hand over his bare scalp, feeling for any spots the razor might have missed. Finding it acceptable, he takes his newly bought grease paint off the shelf, dips his fingers in, and runs them in stripes down his cheeks.

Now he is ready, to save and protect this time instead of killing. But he will kill anyone he must to bring his father home.


	9. Chapter 9

Haytham's rescue couldn't have come at a worse time. He's bleeding, oh  _ God  _ is he bleeding, he's bleeding like Owen has only seen people once or twice before. Manic, confused, switching between extremes of emotion at the drop of a hat. He doesn't seem to know his own name, doesn't recognize Owen, doesn't seem aware that he's in an animus.

The last person Owen had seen like this had been Clay. Back in the days when Owen was alone on Animus Island, when he truly and honestly expected that he would never see another person again, when he spent his time aching hopelessly for Shay and Aveline… that was when Clay had come to him. Screaming, ranting, cutting into himself again and again with his own fingernails.

(Owen has spoken with Clay, since Clay got his body back. He's doing good these days, really good, and sometimes Owen wonders if Clay even remembers that. He talks about the time he killed himself, but doesn't seem to remember how he'd tried to do it again and again when he was already dead.)

Haytham is like that now, lost in a storm of his own madness, and Owen knows there's nothing to do but stay out of his way and wait for the madness to pass.  The depth of Haytham's confusion is dangerous, not just for him but for anyone around him—madness like that, it's intense, it's all consuming, it's  _ catching _ . Owen retreats to a safe distance and waits. Clay had fought the code for hours just to be able to get Haytham out, but he has a sick feeling he might be too late.

And then suddenly there's nothing. No Haytham, just Owen, alone on Animus Island and thinking  _ oh please, God, no, he's not ready… _

But there's no sign of Haytham. Not here, not anywhere in the code. Owen has failed. His one and only job was to keep Haytham safe until his friends come to save him, and now his friends have come to save him, but Owen hadn't kept him safe. His mind is in shreds and tatters, and Owen should have been able to save him. A terrible feeling of guilt falls over him, weighing him down like a thick blanket.

"Shit," Owen whispers. His voice is quiet in the emptiness.

He leaves the animus after that. Leaves this dirty, corrupted mess of code Abstergo's come up with, and takes the backdoor home. Or… well, the closest thing he has left to a home. His animus, with his version of Animus Island, with his kids, the ones he (doesn't deserve) knows how to help…

On the way out, Owen burns the animus around him. He tears through the code, all the way down to the basic infrastructure. No one will ever be held prisoner here again. It's not much, it's way too late, but Owen feels like burning something right now. He messed up, this is all his fault, and he doesn't know if he's ever going to be able to fix it. If  _ anyone's  _ going to be able to fix it. Maybe it's just too late.

-//-

Elina had expected someone to come for Kenway eventually—she had not expected them to come like this, a storm of vengeful assassins tearing through the Abstergo complex in search of their friend. She has seen them fight in Kenway's memories—she had an idea of what to expect when they came for him.

She was wrong. She had not expected this—this maelstrom of righteous, misguided fury, a destructive force raining pain on everything and everyone unfortunate enough to get in the way. So Elina does not. She sees them blow through the complex on the security cameras, and slips out through another exit.

But she doesn't want to leave the area. No one knows her face, not even Kenway. Elina joins the crowd of milling employees—very few of them are templars, and even less have any idea what's going on—gathering across the street from the Abstergo building. Most of them sound terrified, but Elina is calm. Assassins have their honor code, and they won't kill innocents. It's just one reason why they'll always be so much weaker than the templars.

She waits with the others, watching the building like a hawk, imagining Kenway's friends fighting their way through the building to him. They'll get to him. Elina knows a losing battle when she sees one, and even the beefed up security force the higher ups had brought in when Kenway was first captured won't be enough to stop the assassins. Not that Elina cares. Maybe the other templars want him for more drawn out, convoluted plans, but Elina has only ever wanted one thing, she needs to see him suffer.

 

-//-

Someone is holding him, holding him tight, and he—it's nice. He wants to be held, wants to let someone else protect him from the world for a little while. He doesn't want to live through another death, he doesn't want to see his friends die, see his father die. He wants to die and have it  _ stick _ , because he can't quite remember a time before the pain. He c—he can't get away from the endless stream of bad memories, there's nothing happy left in him, no good memories left in his head and he doesn't even know whose head it is.

"It's alright, Haytham, it's alright, son."

Is he Haytham? Does it matter? Will it make the memories hurt any less?

"Come on," the voice in his ear encourages. "Open your eyes, son. Look at me."

Reluctantly, he does. For a second, just a second, he opens his eyes. But—that's him, isn't it? The blonde man with his arms wrapped around him, that's  _ him _ , only how can he be in two places at once? Visiting? The explanation  _ almost  _ makes sense but something in his head is saying no, that's wrong. He meets… Edward, he meets Edward's eyes, and immediately closes his own. He can read the look there as plainly as if the other man's thoughts had been running through his own mind (and who knows? Maybe they are). Someone he cares about has been hurt,  _ again _ , and he's pretty sure it's his own fault,  _ again _ , and there's nothing he can do,  _ again, again, againagainagain _ —

His body spasms as a rush of Edward's memories pours through him, bright and vivid and terrible as ever, failure after failure and he can't stop them because there are no good memories, there are never any good memories…

"Haytham!" Edward cries, the word tearing out of him with mingled horror and despair. But it sounds like it's coming from very far away. And his head is ringing from where he's fallen and hit his head on the hard floor, everything hurts, inside and out, and he just wants the world to stop. Just stop, before anything more bad can happen, before things get even worse.

The world doesn't stop, of course. It keeps going, keeps hurting. There are hands on him, a press of bodies all around him, which is mildly irritating because he wants nothing more than to lie down and just stop, just stop fighting, stop moving, stop trying. What's the point? Nothing will ever get better, nothing will ever happen except death and tragedy, repeated and repeated a hundred times over.

-//-

Finally, Elina sees a little group of people moving around the south end of the building, and moves that way herself. Not too close, not enough to draw attention from the escaping assassins. They're moving without much caution, and Elina assumes this is because there's no one left inside the building to stop them. At least it gives her a good angle to watch them as they hurry away. She's looking for Kenway, she has to see him, and—

Yes. He's there, in the middle of the group, eyes shut tight, propped up on one of his friends. Elina doesn't see which one, she doesn't glance away from Kenway. After a moment he opens his eyes, apparently unaware that he's even doing so. Elina cranes forward. Searching. Hoping.

She sees it, then, at last. A crushing, desperate hopelessness. His gaze won't focus, he doesn’t seem to know where he is. For a moment he stumbles and almost falls, but one of his friends is there at his side to pull him back to his feet and get him moving again.

Elina watches until they disappear around a corner. Tomorrow, she's sure, she and the other templars here will have to answer for Kenway's escape. But that's alright. That's fine. Elina knows now that the things she's done to Kenway's mind won't be leaving him anytime soon.  He's not in an animus anymore. So what? He'll never be the same, he'll never be sane again. Elina may not have an active hand in his torture any longer, but the things she has done will continue to hurt him for quite possibly the rest of his life.

Elina smiles and smiles, and tries to preserve the memory of this moment as well as she can. It’s possible that she will never see Kenway again. Maybe (and she can’t pretend this thought isn’t a bit satisfying) he won’t make it. Maybe he’ll end up like Subject 16, or possibly one of his friends will have to put him down.

Or maybe they’ll run into one another again. Someday, months or years from now, maybe they’ll see each other again. Elina thinks she would enjoy looking Haytham in the eye, and telling him that she’s the one that drove him mad.

Elina smiles, staring absentmindedly in the direction where Haytham had disappeared.

She’ll wait as long as she has to. Years, if that’s what’s necessary. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and Elina has always been a patient person.

-//-

He has a vague impression of being herded, guided he doesn't know where. At some point he's put in a car, and Edward is calling to him again. He won't answer, he can't. He doesn't know whose voice will come out if he tries to speak. What if he doesn't recognize it? And besides, he doesn't know what to say. Edward wants comfort but Haytham wants to be left alone and above it all he just wants it to  _ stop _ .

He's guided out of the car, into a building, and someone says  _ "Daddy?" _ in a voice so achingly familiar that he opens his eyes. There's a little girl standing there, or… no, not so little anymore. She's growing up but she's still his little girl, she always, always will be. He drops to his knees and opens his arms, lets her run into them. She's crying, but they're happy tears, she's telling him how much she missed him, how badly she wanted him to come home. For the first time in… in… (how long?) in a very long time, he feels something spark inside him. This is good. He'd almost thought there was no good left in the world, but here she is.  _ Here she is _ , in his arms, and with her here to anchor him, he knows who he is at last.

"Jenny," he says, and she goes suddenly still and quiet in his arms. "I missed you too."


	10. Chapter 10

Lucy has a key to the safehouse, so she lets herself in without knocking. It’s been three days since Haytham's rescue, and Lucy knows she should have been here days ago—she does have experience with the animus and dealing with bleeding effect victims, if nothing else—but her guilt had kept her away.   
  
But Lucy doesn't think anyone will mind her coming to visit, she doesn't think they blame her the way they should, and she needs to see Haytham. It's her fault he's like this, so it's not fair of her to spend all her time somewhere else, hiding from him, trying to ignore the reality of his shattered mind.   
  
She'd been the only other one with him during the mission where Abstergo finally captured him. If Lucy had been better prepared, if she'd had an escape plan or—or any kind of a plan b, maybe Haytham wouldn't have spent weeks in the animus, being driven mad.   
  
James is just inside the front door when Lucy lets herself in, kicking a soccer ball around the massive kitchen table. He looks up at Lucy (who stops herself from giving him a stern teacher look just in time—it's not her business if he's playing soccer in the kitchen) and squirms. "I'm being quiet!" he informs her. "And I'm not gonna break anything."   
  
Lucy knows him from visits to the safe house, but they're not particularly close. She keeps her tone friendly and polite. "Where's your grandpa, James?"   
  
"Upstairs," James says, dropping his voice. "He shouted at Daddy and Uncle Connor all night. I think he wanted to fight them, cuz he said assassins are bad, and then everybody had to go calm him down. Now I think he's sleeping."   
  
"And is everyone else upstairs too?"   
  
"Uh huh. Elena said she was gonna take me to the park so we could play soccer, but she forgot I guess. That's why I'm playing inside."   
  
Lucy leaves him to his game, and heads upstairs. The first room she passes looks like the girls' room. Geraldine's not there when Lucy glances in, but Grace is curled up on her bed, crying and mumbling inaudibly while Elena tries to comfort her. They both look exhausted, and neither notices Lucy as she slips past.   
  
The other bedrooms have their doors closed, mostly. The door to Ezio and Edward's bedroom is open, but they're both fast asleep and don't stir as she creeps past. Lucy doesn't see anyone else until she gets to the end of the hallway, where Haytham, Shay, and Aveline sleep.   
  
Shay isn't there at the moment, but Aveline is sitting at the room's desk, head on her hands, watching Haytham through bleary, half open eyes. Haytham himself is sitting on the bed, arms curled around his knees, rocking slightly. Every few seconds, Haytham's eyes will droop closed, and he'll drop sideways for a second before catching himself. Lucy had expected him to be a mess, but this is worse than she's ever seen him look before. His hair is a tangled mane around his dirty face. Tear tracks running from the corners of both eyes and down to his chin are the only clean spots on his face.   
  
Aveline notices Lucy before Haytham does, and she smiles, rising to welcome Lucy. "Look, Haytham," she says gently. “It's Lucy.”   
  
His eyes flick between the two women, and he giggles. “Lucy,” he says, and for a second he sounds almost sane. But then he says it again, “Lucy!” in something like Edward’s voice. Over and over, bouncing between voices, varying pitch and tone and accent until finally he trails off again into terrible giggling that won't stop.   
  
“I don't understand,” Aveline says numbly. “Last night he was bouncing between himself and Edward—he wanted Shay dead for being a Templar, the rest of us dead for being assassins—and then all of a sudden…”   
  
“Did he hurt you?” Lucy asks. She tries to meet Haytham's eyes, but can only face the raw panic there for a moment before forcing himself to look away.    
  
"No," Aveline says. “But it was like he was fighting himself, mind and body at odds. After a while he just started shouting really terrible things. And then all of a sudden… This.”   
  
Haytham looks up at the two of them, shaking, eyes terrified, still giggling. He clamps a trembling hand over his mouth as if to muffle the laughter, but it doesn't do much, and Lucy watches helplessly as he tries to cram his whole fist into his mouth. Aveline shakes her head and sits down at his side, coaxing him to relax, pulling his hands away from his face.   
  
“I saw this once,” Lucy says. “Subject…thirteen, I think. He couldn't figure out who he was supposed to be, so his mind started to—“   
  
“Break?” Aveline asks. She says the word in a thin, brittle voice, not looking at Lucy.   
  
“No,” Lucy says. “Vidic called it running tests. Basic things, a word, or a laugh, or…whatever. It's the mind’s way of trying to figure out what fits on this body.”   
  
“Did it stop?” Aveline asks.   
  
“Well—no,” Lucy admits. “Vidic ordered him shot.”   
  
“Shot,” Haytham echoes suddenly, the eerie laughter dying all at once. “Shoot. Shit. Shite. Shingle, single, sing, song, soon, swoon, saloon, spoon, loon goon toon moon man min man ma'am mum—“    
  
The recitation of nonsense words cuts off abruptly, replaced by a series of exaggerated facial expressions—surprise, joy, sadness, longing—all there and gone again in an instant. But all the while, there's still that numb terror in his eyes. Lucy watches, forcing herself not to look away as Aveline whispers soft I love yous into Haytham's ear.    
  
This is her fault. She should have expected things to go wrong. Should have had backup plans. Should have sacrificed herself to keep the grandmaster safe. It should be her, sitting on this bed spouting nonsense.    
  
Lucy stays in that room until Desmond comes up to replace Aveline as Haytham's babysitter. He insists that Lucy take a break as well, so the two of them leave together.    
  
In the doorway, Lucy hesitates for a second and looks back. Haytham is holding his hand three inches in front of his face, watching intently as he opens and closes it. He's gone back to his giggling.    
  
Lucy shudders and follows Aveline down the hall.    
  
The assassin stops on the stairs, so abruptly it looks like someone's hit an off switch. She puts a hand in the wall to steady herself, and Lucy hurries to support her as well.    
  
Aveline shakes her head. “He won't be like this forever, will he?”   
  
“I don't think so,” Lucy says. “But that's up to him.”   
  
Aveline is silent for a long moment. “I still love him,” she says. “No matter how little there is of Haytham left in his head. I know he's fighting to come back to us, and I… Shay and I… all of us. We're going to be waiting to help him, however we can.”   
  
“I'm so sorry,” Lucy says. “You shouldn't have to…it should have been me. It was my fault, I should have been better—“   
  
Aveline doesn't seem to hear. She pushes away from the wall and heads downstairs, leaving Lucy alone with the terrible weight of her secret guilt.    
  
She spends the rest of the day at the safe house, trying to help however she can. By the end of the night, Haytham is downstairs with the rest of them, declaring himself to be Edward, acting much like the real Edward does.    
  
The others seem to take this as a step in the right direction—at least he thinks he's someone now, even if it's the wrong someone—but Lucy imagines she still sees the same terror in his eyes.    
  
She leaves when Haytham starts dropping none too subtle hints about sleeping together. Her car is parked a block away, and Lucy manages to stay composed as she walks towards it, does her customary check for signs of Abstergo or assassin traps, and gets in.    
  
And then she starts to sob, and does not stop for hours. 


	11. Chapter 11

Grace can hear Dad upstairs, laughing at something with Grandpa's easy laugh, and she hugs herself a little out of sheer nerves. She never knows exactly what kind of crazy Dad's going to be on any given day, and it's hard to deal with. Some days he thinks he's Grandpa. Some days he thinks he's himself, but himself from his first lifetime—Grace has asked if it's normal to bleed a younger version of yourself, and Desmond had told her he doesn't know of anyone else that had to relive their own memories over and over again like their Dad did.

Sometimes Dad is himself, or almost himself, but then he's horribly aware of how sick the bleeding effect has made him, and he sinks into a kind of grim depression that no one can pull him out of. Sometimes he doesn't have any idea who he is, doesn't answer to his name or Grandpa's. Sometimes he seems to get stuck in a particular memory, reliving it in his head even though he's not in an animus. Grace had spent one particularly terrible afternoon holding Dad as he sobbed against her shoulder, convinced that he was ten years old and had just watched his father die.

Across the table where they're all eating breakfast together, Elena flinches and glances sideways at Grace. All this is hard on her as well, of course. But even if she's losing her grandpa, she still has her dad. Grace tries to comfort herself by remembering she still has Papa, but that just makes her feel like a terrible person. Papa's not a  _ replacement  _ for Dad.

"At least he's laughing," Geraldine says from Elena's other side. "If he thinks he's Edward, maybe he can be happy today."

"But he thinks he's someone else," Elena says. "That's the worst thing the bleeding effect can do."

Upstairs, Dad's still carrying on in Grandpa's voice. Grace looks over at Elena. "Hey," she says. "Can you, um…"

"Yea?" Elena encourages. She's being kind again. Everyone's been very  _ kind  _ to her, since Dad came home feeling nine tenths crazy. It had been nice in the first few days, when Grace felt absolutely  _ shattered  _ by the way Dad didn't know her, but now she's just tired. She wants someone to act normally, even if it's not Dad.

"Can you tell me about Jenny?" Grace asks, staring at the table in front of Elena. "She's your visitor, and Dad, um… on days like this, when he thinks he's Grandpa, he looks at me and he's happy, because he thinks I'm her. And then I do something that's not what Jenny would do, and he knows something's wrong but it's like… he can't figure it out, so he's just confused but he won't come  _ near  _ me. And I just want to stay in that first part, where he's happy to see me, even if—"

"Even if you have to be someone else?" Elena asks. And there's that other thing Grace doesn't like to see, the one other than kindness. She sees pity. "Grace, I know you miss your dad. I miss him too. But we already have one person that thinks they're someone else. You pretending to be Jenny won't help."

It'll help Grace feel better. But she knows what Elena really means, that it won't help  _ Dad _ .

"Fine," Grace whispers, and gets up to put her plates in the sink. She's barely touched her food, but she doesn't have the stomach for it anymore. Elena and Geraldine let her go without comment, and part of Grace is pettily angry at their silence. She wants to be told off, not treated like she's about to break…

She's headed for her room when she runs into Dad, sprawled out on the couch of the little upstairs sitting room. Grace freezes—she has to walk past him to get to her room, and she doesn't want to. But the only other option is going back to Elena and Geraldine and their horrible pity.

He beams at her, and Grace smiles uncertainly back. She can't help it. She knows that smile means he's not himself, but she's so tired of seeing him sad.

"Come sit here with me, Jen," he says, and Grace's feet carry her toward Dad before her heart has finished breaking. She slides onto the couch and curls into his arms—for a second she closes her eyes, and just focuses on the way he's holding her. When she does that, she can almost pretend everything is normal.

"I feel like we never get to do this anymore," Dad says. His words come out in Grandpa's accent, not his own, and it breaks the illusion. Grace opens her eyes. "You're growing up so fast."

"Well I can't help it," Grace says—Dad laughs, light and easy. "I just grow."

"Don't you think you could slow down?" Dad teases. "Just a little. You'll be old enough to marry soon."

Grace is twelve. She wonders if Dad thinks she (or Jenny, or whatever) is older, or if women were just supposed to marry young back then. Maybe she'll ask Grandpa later, if he wants to talk about it. "I don't want to marry," she says.

"And what would you rather do with your life, eh?" he asks. "If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?"

Grace bites her lip. There's something she's been thinking about actually, something she hadn't really considered until Dad came back, all broken and sad. But now she can't think of anything else. She's been thinking about asking Papa about it, but… she'd really rather talk to Dad. Maybe, if she talks to Dad like this, bleeding Grandpa, maybe that will be good enough?

"Jenny?" Dad prompts.

"I want to be a templar," Grace says. She's ready for the way Dad suddenly freezes around her (like templars are a bad thing, like they're the enemy), but even braced for it, his reaction still hurts.

"Why?" he asks. "You know what happened to me before I met you. You know what the templars did."

"Not all templars are like that," Grace says. She leans away a little, to look him in the eye. They still look the same. Dad's eyes. "I've met some very nice templars, the kind that fight to  _ protect  _ people. Even from other templars." Like the ones that hurt you, she does not say. "That's what I want to do, I want to protect the people I care about."

"You can do that as an assassin," Dad says. "If you feel you have to fight, why not on my side?"

Grace takes a breath. She knows this is going to hurt him, and he'll push her away again. But Dad has always been fiercely proud of being a templar. This is one lie she can't let him tell himself. "I  _ am  _ on your side," she says, and she hears in her voice the same kindness she's gotten used to hearing from Elena. She completely and utterly hates this. "I want to be a templar because you're a templar. And now that I've seen what other templars do in the name of the order, I've figured out that all I ever wanted is to be like you. I want to be your kind of templar."

"But I'm not—you…" He draws back as if stung. "You're not Jenny."

"No," Grace mumbles. She's already standing up from the couch, ready to walk away before he can shout at her and send her off. She hates that part. But he catches her around the wrist and holds her still, and when Grace looks back, he's wearing a look of deep concentration.

"You're  _ Grace _ ," he says.

"I… yea. Yea, I am. Do you know who you are?"

A long pause, in which he seems to be searching for his name. When he doesn't find it, he looks at Grace. "I'm your father," he says, and maybe he doesn't know his name but Grandpa's accent has melted away and he sounds like himself again.

"Yea," Grace says. That's the important part, anyway. "That's exactly who you are."

"And you want to be like me?"

She'd rather that he be like himself, but… well, yea. Grace never realized, before Dad broke, just how much of a role model he is. But… who better to imitate? "Yea," she whispers.

"So I'm a good father?"

"Absolutely," Grace says.

His face clears in obvious relief, but when he speaks, Grace feels her heart sink. He's back to Grandpa's voice. "Then I must be Edward," he says, firmly. Then he drops his voice, like he's confessing a secret. "I can't always tell who I am. There's more than one person in my head. But Edward is a wonderful father, and Haytham—his son killed him. So if I'm a good father, I must be Edward."

"No," Grace whispers. He ignores her, half turns away, and when Grace follows his eyes she sees Maman standing at the top of the stairs, frowning. Dad grins at her.

"Aveline! Looking a bit grim today, aren't you?"

"For good reason," she says, drawing close. When she reaches Grace, she gives her a quick kiss on the top of the head. "Go get your school things," she whispers.

"But—"

"Go."

Grace goes, but slowly, listening to the conversation behind her. At least until Dad starts hitting on Maman, makes a crude joke about the two of them in bed together. Then Grace speeds up, tears pricking her eyes. She knows Grandpa had kissed Maman once, a lifetime ago. He'd probably offered to sleep with her, he does that with lots of pretty women. But Dad loves her. He shouldn't be saying things like this.

He's offering to show Maman how much bigger his dick is than Papa's when Grace gets to her room—she slams the door behind her and thinks of the people at Abstergo that did this to him. She thinks of them dying, and then of herself as their killer.

She's never really been able to understand all the violence before, not even growing up in a house of assassins and templars. But she can see it so clearly in her mind's eye now, herself as a knight templar, powerful enough to get the vengeance Dad deserves. She could make the world better, like templars are supposed to.

And that's what she wants. If she can't help Dad—and she can't, it's been weeks and weeks and he's not getting better, not at all—then the least she can do is avenge him.

She feels some part of her heart go cold and hard inside her.


	12. Chapter 12

"Something's wrong." Haytham is staring at Shay with furrowed, accusatory brow. His hair is wild and matted, his eyes deeply shadowed. He's wearing pajamas in the middle of the day and keeps looking around warily as if expecting an attack. He looks almost nothing like the man Shay has loved for years, his Grand Master, his friend. But this is indeed Haytham Kenway, broken by Abstergo and their Animus.

"Nothing's wrong," Shay insists, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants.

"Where are you going, then?" Haytham demands.

"Out," Shay mumbles, dropping his eyes from Haytham's. The truth is, he's going to a Templar meeting, the first since Haytham's return. Given Haytham's dreadful mental health, there's no chance he'll be attending, which means Shay will be leading the meeting.

It was easy enough to lead the Templars when their focus was rescuing Haytham. But now, Shay has to guide the Order for the foreseeable future. He has to decide where to direct their efforts to best destroy Abstergo. He has to recruit, train, and promote new Templars. He has to do all of Haytham's paperwork. He has to lead the meetings.

It hits him, then: _he's_ in charge of a worldwide (well, countrywide, plus that one group halfway across the world and the team in Italy) Order. Maybe some other fellow would be excited by the power he holds in his hands, but all Shay can think of at this moment, absurdly, is that he can't even win a Pokémon battle against Geraldine. How is he supposed to outwit and outmatch a multinational corporation with several Pieces of Eden?

"You're going on a mission," Haytham breathes, and seizes Shay by his shirt, grabbing double handfuls of fabric. His eyes are wide with uncontrolled fear. "You're leaving me alone!" Haytham chokes back a sob, then his eyes narrow. "In this den of Assassins."

Shay gently unpicks Haytham's fingers from his shirt. "They're our visitors, Haytham."

"But can we really trust them?" Haytham asks, now squeezing Shay's hands desperately.

Shay kisses Haytham, then each of his hands, before gently tugging his own free, and his heart breaks anew as Haytham flinches at each intimate gesture. But at least he's permitting it, and that's something, Shay tries to tell himself.

Aveline comes into the room, then, and kisses Shay. "Go," she tells him. "You'll be late."

"That's a bad idea," Haytham speaks up. "Kissing an Assassin."

Aveline smiles sweetly at Haytham, and Shay hesitates. Is it wise to leave his wife and lover alone together like this? Under normal circumstances he'd be perfectly happy to do so, if a little disappointed that he couldn't watch, but circumstances haven't been normal since Haytham came back.

"Go," Aveline insists, "We'll be here when you return." And so, finally, Shay does leave, driving to the meeting with a heavy heart.

Most of the Templars--these are the inner circle, the most trusted, primarily the first group that Haytham and Shay had recruited to the Order--are already seated, and they look hopefully at Shay when he comes in the door. Then, one by one, they frown in disappointment. Their eyes drop, their shoulders sag. "How's Grand Master Kenway?" David asks, voice tense.

"Very bad off," Shay confesses. Someone sighs audibly. Lucy ducks her head--has she, too, found it difficult to keep from the others her knowledge of how terribly sick Haytham is?

"What can we do?" Juanita asks. "What does he need? Pills? We can steal pills."

Shay shakes his head, then shrugs. "Something to help him sleep, maybe. The bleeding's worse when he's tired."

Juanita nods firmly. "Then we'll get him something for that. I know a guy."

Lucy finally breaks her silence. "I don't know if it'll help. When I was with Abstergo, they gave all sorts of pills to Subject 16--Clay--and he still committed suicide."

"Is the Grand Master as bad off?" Juanita demands.

"Worse," Lucy says bluntly, then adds, "He's got the worst bleeding I've ever seen."

Shay's heart sinks, but he clears his throat loudly as everyone begins talking. "As much as I love Haytham and worry about him, both as the Grand Master and personally, I think we should all remember that he'd be very unhappy if we didn't keep up with his vision for the Templar order," he reminds everyone. "Our work in this world is bigger than any one of us, even our Grand Master."

Everyone mumbles agreement, and Shay breathes a silent sigh of relief. He knows he's not heartless for wanting to refocus on the work they do, but he'd been worried that someone would use it as a pretext to challenge him over leadership. They can't afford to be fractured now.

"I have the quarterly report ready about our investments," David offers, waving his tablet.

Shay nods, and Lucy clears her throat. "There's some new proposed laws about education that we need to discuss."

Juanita pipes up, "We've analyzed the data from the last raid we did, and we're working on what we got from the facility where Grand Master Kenway was being held."

On and on, his Templars tell him about their work, and Shay begins to have glimpses of a peaceful, safe future. One where Abstergo is gone and the true Templars guide society for the benefit of all. One where Haytham is well again, and happy (and allows himself to be happy.) It's something Shay hasn't seen before--at first he was content to follow Haytham's vision, then he was looking no farther ahead than the rescue. And after that, he's been just living day to day, dealing with his lover's illness and the mundanities of life as a husband, father, friend, and visitor. But this--this is much more than that, and he smiles sadly. He doesn't know if Haytham will ever be able to look this far ahead again, trapped as he is in his diseased mind.

So it falls to Shay to lead the Templars who will guide humanity. He hopes he's up to the challenge.


	13. Chapter 13

Edward blinks. How did he come to be sitting here, eating stinky sardines in mustard sauce (yuck) at this table? And why is he wearing Hat Man's clothes? They look more like Desmond's clothes, but somehow he knows they're Hat Man's. Well, this won't work. How else can he aggravate all the Assassins who visit him, if he's not wearing their clothes? He leaves the foul fish behind and goes looking for Assassin clothing. Got to keep up appearances, after all.

The first bedroom door he finds has a piece of paper taped to it, with some squiggles and the name "Altaïr" written on it. Good. All these Assassin fellows (and Aveline) look up to Altaïr as some sort of super-Assassin, so stealing his clothes will have much more effect than taking Duncan Walpole's robes.

Edward's a bit disappointed to find that Altaïr, like himself and Hat Man, seems to be dressing in Desmond-style clothes, but he helps himself to a gray hooded jacket with one of those newfangled metal fasteners running up the front. The hood seems to be the important part for those Assassins, in any case. The hood and the blades, and he doesn't see any blades anywhere around. He's about to close the drawer when an idea occurs to him.

He's shredded Altaïr's underclothes before, but what if he got all of his clothes this time? That would really get him back for jumping off that building that one time. Looking around, he finds a pair of scissors and sets to work, humming happily. And then the door opens and Adéwalé comes in.

"There you are! I swear, I cannot turn my back on you for one second to use the privy, Haytham."

"'m not this Haytham fellow, whoever he is," Edward says happily. "Jaysus, Adé, you know me. It's Edward." One, two, three trousers gone. How much clothing does the man _have_??

"No, you're Haytham," Adéwalé insists. "What are you doing?"

"I promise you, mate, I'm Edward. Else why would you be here? And I'm getting a little revenge on mister thinks he's the best Assassin of all time, is what I'm doing. See?"

"Haytham," Adéwalé says tiredly, "you are not your father. You are, in fact, a far better man than your father used to be. How I miss the pompous Templar I used to loathe and oppose."

Edward laughs. "I'm not this Haytham fellow, or his father. I'm nobody's father... as far as I know, anyway. And you know what I think you should do if you miss a Templar?" he continues. 

"What?"

"Shoot again.”


	14. Chapter 14

Evie is starting to realize that as irresponsible as Edward might be now, he used to be far worse before she met him. Now that Haytham is bleeding that younger Edward on a worryingly frequent basis, she can see that for herself. Haytham, as Edward, is an absolute mess. He acts like he's drunk nearly all the time, even though no one will let him near any kind of alcohol—they'd agreed unanimously that drinking and bleeding are a bad mix. He'll stumble around the safehouse, talking too loudly, terrifying poor James, doing what he wants, when he wants.

Just now, for example, he's in his bedroom, masturbating furiously. And Evie really wishes she didn't know that. But Haytham isn't supposed to be unsupervised these days, not even for so much as a few minutes, and it's Evie's turn to mind him. She's not entirely sure if he knows she's in the room, and as uncomfortable as the situation is, she's not sure she wants to bring his attention onto her by trying to convince him to stop.

"Oi," Haytham says abruptly, in his borrowed Edward voice. It’s slurred, and Evie notes vaguely that the version of Edward he’s bleeding at the moment must be drunk. What a surprise. "Enjoying the show, are you?"

"Wishing for an early finale, actually," Evie says in her frostiest voice.

Haytham laughs aloud, but to Evie's relief he actually does stop. Of course, her relief is short lived, because in the next second he's very close to her, grinning. "It might be a bit more fun if you joined in, you know."

" _ Why  _ would I do that?" Evie demands.

"I'm very attractive," Haytham says. "Come on—"

And this is when Jacob walks past the half open door, takes in Haytham very obviously hitting on Evie, and scowls. "Hey," he says. "Hey, that's  _ my sister _ ."

Haytham glances between the two of them. "Is she really?"

"My twin sister," Jacob says, almost growling.

This doesn't seem to have the intended effect. Far from backing off, Haytham perks up immediately. "Twins!" he says. "Really? Don't suppose the two of you would be interested in—"

"No," Evie says flatly. Haytham looks at her expression, and clearly decides that Jacob is more likely to agree.

"It's just a bit of fun, mate," he says, taking a step or two toward Jacob.

"But—"

Haytham kisses him before he has the chance to say more than a single word. It's rough and messy, and Haytham seems to be swaying slightly (the effect of the rum he'd never actually drank), but Jacob—well, he's not pushing Haytham away like he should be.

"No," he mumbles at last. "I couldn't—not with Evie, that'd just be weird."

Evie opens her mouth to protest that this isn't exactly the only problem with Haytham's suggestion, when someone says, "Excuse me?"

"Arno!" Jacob says, face going suddenly and completely red. "I, er—I meant not at all. I couldn't sleep with Haytham at all, obviously."

"Who's Haytham?" Haytham demands.

Arno narrows his eyes, and Jacob bites his lip.

"That was a very good kiss," he admits. Haytham beams. "Seriously, Arno, you ought to try it."

"I'm game," Haytham says. "Been at sea for weeks—I haven't had a good fuck in ages."

"And you wanted to—" Evie suddenly can't quite look at Jacob. "With both of us. Together?"

"Twins," Haytham says, like this explains everything. "Even Ezio would be impressed. Just think, it'd be—"

What follows is an extremely detailed and specific description of what a threesome between the three of them would be like. It's… well, considering Haytham thinks he's drunk, it's very well thought out. Disturbing and  _ weird  _ as well, and by the time he's done, Jacob looks as uncomfortable as Evie feels. Haytham's plan seems to involve a lot of the twins kissing each other.

There's a long silence.

"I, uh…" Jacob is blushing. Evie has never seen him quite that shade of pink. And she's barely seeing it now, she can't meet his eyes for more than a second before her imagination starts providing unhelpful images of what Haytham had just described. "That's—"

He trails off into a high pitched squeaking noise, and Arno takes hold of his arm protectively.

"I think it's time to go," he says.

Jacob nods quickly, and then the two of them are gone. Haytham turns his attention back to Evie, and she braces herself for another crass comment. It never comes. Haytham studies her for a long moment, eyebrows pinching together in confusion. "Evie?" he says at last, in his own voice.

"Um—" she clears her throat, tries to fight down her embarrassment. "Haytham."

"I've said something awful again," he says. "Haven't I?"

Evie doesn't want to discourage him, but right now she can scarcely look at him. "Yes," she says at last.

He thinks about this for a moment, and Evie can see the exact moment when he remembers what he's done. The guilt tears away his attempt at a calm expression, and he turns his back to her at once. "You must hate me," he says, and his voice is so firm, so absolutely certain, that Evie thinks that what he really means is probably something more like  _ I hate myself _ .

He drops onto his bed and curls into himself. For over an hour he simply lies there, shaking, refusing to acknowledge Evie. She leans against the wall near the door, frowning, and trying to convince herself that Haytham will be able to come back to himself one day. But the man he used to be would never have said those things to her, and Evie is half convinced his mind has been twisted so badly out of shape it will never be whole again.

-//-

"How's dad?" Desmond asks, when Ezio has replaced Evie as Haytham's minder.

"Not well," she says softly. He tries to hide the quick flash of disappointment that runs across his face, but Evie sees it.

"What happened this time?" Desmond asks, voice dead.

Evie doesn't enjoy lying to Desmond. But in this case… the truth would hurt him. He doesn't need to know his father was trying to bed his wife. "Nothing unusual," she says. "No worse, but no better."

"Well that's something, at least," Desmond says. He's trying to seem brave. "No worse."

"No worse," Evie agrees, and tries to sound like she means it. 


	15. Chapter 15

Desmond tries to be there for Haytham, as often as he can, but it's strange and painful to be on this side of the bleeding effect. He's been there himself, of course, but that doesn't make it any easier to predict how Haytham will react on any given day. And besides that, he does have other concerns. Elena is eighteen and she'd been moody and hormonal even before Haytham was taken hostage—she's worse now, and Desmond feels an obligation to her, to do what he can to help her feel better. Then there's James, who just _cannot_ understand why his grandpa doesn't know him anymore. He's gotten quiet, and that really worries Desmond. He used to be just like any other little boy, loud and wild and full of apparently endless reserves of energy. Now he keeps quiet, and hides whenever he's in the same room as Haytham.

So Desmond is torn between his duties as a son and his duties as a father. And then there are his duties as a brother—Connor doesn't need looking after, but Grace is obviously suffering. Desmond tries to take her away from the safe house as often as he can, to distract her with other things. But she rarely lets him. Even when she's obviously desperate for a break, she refuses to abandon Haytham for any longer than she has to. Sometimes, Desmond admires her determination. More often, he wishes she hadn't gotten so much of the (apparently genetic) trademark Kenway stubbornness. Still—he has to try to help her.

With all this going on around him, with his dad losing his mind and his children miserable and his little sister torturing herself, Desmond rarely has time to think of his own feelings. But then there are moments like this…

Haytham's been out of the animus for about a month, and so far, progress is… well, Desmond likes to say 'slow,' because he's an optimist. Connor, on the other hand, likes to say 'nonexistent.' And when Desmond walks in on scenes like this, he thinks that maybe Connor is right. Because Haytham is on the floor, crouched in front of a full length mirror, staring at his own face in blank incomprehension.

"Dad," Desmond says, when he finally gets up the courage to walk farther into the room. "Are you…" He can't ask _are you okay_ , the answer is too obviously _no_. "What's wrong?"

"It's me," Haytham says, in a strangled, terrified voice.

Desmond crouches next to him, trying to figure out what has Haytham so upset. But all he sees is the same man he's been looking at for a month now. Eyes wild from fear and confusion, hair constantly a mess because he can't take care of himself, face dirty for the same reason, skin and bones because he can't focus long enough to eat, eyes lined with deep shadows because he wakes himself up screaming every time he tries to sleep.

"What do you mean?" Desmond asks at last.

"Hat Man," Haytham says, and it's been so long since Desmond heard that name, he's almost forgotten what it means. Then he remembers the pet name Edward had given Haytham, back when Haytham was trying to hide his identity from his father.

"Dad…"

"How could he have been me all this time?" Haytham demands, turning round to stare at Desmond. His expression is half accusation and half confusion. "That's not what I look like, _that's not my face_."

"Yea it is, dad," Desmond says. "You're Haytham Kenway, remember? Hat Man is a term Edward came up with, because you wouldn't tell him your real name."

"Stop calling me that," Haytham says, sharply. "I'm nobody's father."

Desmond has heard this so often it doesn't even hurt anymore. "You are," he reminds Haytham. "You're my father, and Connor's, and—"

But Haytham flinches and lets out a pathetic whimper at Connor's name. His hands fly up to cover his neck, and he huddles into himself. "No," he whispers. "No, no—"

"It's okay," Desmond says. Crap—he always forgets how often Haytham had to relive his own death. Rebecca had gotten a record of the sessions from Owen, and she'd told Desmond that Haytham had lived it seventy six times, in the end. No wonder he's traumatized.

"Is he here?"

"No," Desmond lies. Connor is downstairs, but he'll know better than to come into the room when Haytham is like this. His presence only ever seems to make things worse.

Haytham relaxes, just for the moment. Then he scowls, and all of a sudden lashes out. Desmond cries out, tries to stop him, but it's too late. Haytham's fist hits the mirror hard, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces, completely breaking up his own reflection.

"Dad!" Desmond says, grabbing for his hand. "What did you—shit, you're bleeding all over."

"It was lying to me," Haytham says, voice rising. "That wasn't me!"

"Alright," Desmond says, too frightened by the thick stream of blood soaking Haytham's hand to bother arguing his identity right now. "Just—let me bandage this, alright?"

Haytham looks away, but doesn't answer. Desmond mumbles a _be right back_ and dashes away to get the first aid kit. Haytham is still sitting on the floor when he comes back, pouting like a petulant child. Desmond sits cross legged in front of him, and reaches for tweezers to start pulling shards of glass out of Haytham's hand.

"It hurts," Haytham whispers.

"Then you shouldn't have hit the mirror," Desmond says softly. "Why did you do that?"

"I told you," Haytham says. "It wasn't me, it _lied_ to me."

"Then who are you?" Desmond asks. His voice sounds dull and tired in his own ears—but he's tired of asking the question, even more tired of the inevitably wrong responses.

"Edward," Haytham says firmly.

Desmond sighs. "You're not. I know it's hard to wrap your head around, trust me, I've been there, but you're not Edward."

Haytham goes quiet, thinking about this for a long moment. For a second, he looks like he's considering it, but then he shakes his head. "I'm Edward. I don't know who Hat Man is, how can he be me?"

"Never mind," Desmond sighs. He goes back to picking out glass.

Haytham watches him. Then he says, "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"That," Haytham says, pointing to his injured hand with his good one. "You don't have to. I can take care of myself."

"You're my dad," Desmond says. "You've done more for me."

" _I'm_ your dad?" Haytham asks suspiciously. "Or _Hat Man_ is?"

Desmond finishes with the glass, and trades the tweezers for a roll of bandages. Haytham lets Desmond wrap his hand tightly without speaking. If he had really been Edward, that would have been a miracle, and Desmond honestly considers telling that to Haytham. But in the end, he just says, "You're my dad. And… Hat Man is my dad as well."

Haytham scoffs. "Because I'm Hat Man?"

"Because you're Haytham."

"Well this is just getting confusing," Haytham grumbles.

"I'm not the one that punched my own reflection," Desmond mutters. It's petty, but he's tired.

Haytham laughs. He seems to be making an effort to sound like none of this bothers him, and only the stiff set of his shoulders tells Desmond he's faking. "Wasn't my reflection, mate."

"It _was_ —"

"I'm bored," Haytham announces, loudly. "There's got to be someone more fun than you around here." He springs to his feet, then hesitates as he steps toward the door. He slows—stops. Turns back to Desmond, and although his face is suddenly set in a mask of abject horror, his eyes are clear for the first time all week.

Desmond feels his heart leap at this rare glimpse of lucidity, even as he reminds himself that it will probably be as brief as all the others. "Dad," he says, standing as well.

Haytham's face twists into a pained expression, and he presses a hand to his face. It's pointless, because when he speaks, Desmond can hear him crying. "Go away, Desmond," he says. "Please. I can't—I don't want anyone to see me like this."

"I only want to help," Desmond reminds him.

"I can't stand…" He hesitates, swaying, still hiding his face behind his hand. "Don't _pity_ me."

The guilt and shame are so heavy in his voice that Desmond thinks his heart might break. He walks over to his dad and grips his shoulder, politely pretending not to feel Haytham flinch as he does so. "I was bleeding once too," he reminds Haytham softly. "I know what it's like and trust me, dad. I don't pity you. I love you, and I wish you were better, but I get it. And I don't pity you."

Haytham hesitates, then smiles. It's just a small twitch of his lips, scarcely anything at all, but it's such a relief to see it. "Thank you, Desmond."

"Course," Desmond says.

And then suddenly, without any transition whatsoever, Haytham is on him— _kissing_ him, and Desmond cries out in shock and horror, staggering backwards. "What was that for?" he demands. "Shit, that—why would you _do_ that?"

"You were like me," Haytham says. "You were bleeding, and you kissed me, and it helped. Why shouldn't it help me?"

"I didn't kiss you," Desmond argues. "I kissed _Edward_."

Haytham looks at him like he's just said the sky is green. "Right," he says. "And I'm Edward, remember?"

"No…"

Haytham laughs, and shifts his weight—when he stands like that, carelessly alert, looking like he’s ready to go running off at the drop of a hat, he suddenly… well, that's how Edward stands. Only… Haytham’s tears are still on his face, only half dried around Edward’s bright smile. "Come on," he says, and Desmond hears the way his voice has changed, the accent, the pitch, even the volume. All to sound more like Edward. "I need a drink."

"Dad—"

"Maybe you should try laying off the rum for a while, though," Haytham calls over his shoulder, already halfway out of the room. "I think you must be drunk already, you keep calling me dad."


	16. Chapter 16

There's a little boy hiding under the desk, and Haytham has this itching, nagging feeling that he should know his name. He looks almost like Desmond (and Haytham remembers an early visit, killing a man in a theatre only to turn around and find a trembling, terrified four year old watching him—he feels something at the thought, a warm fondness for a visitor he barely knows). But…no. There's a strong resemblance here, but this isn't Desmond.

He doesn't quite feel comfortable leaving this particular mystery unsolved. Not when… well, not when everything else seems so strange right now. Just like the boy, really. Superficially familiar, close enough to pass for a young Desmond at first glance, but on closer examination he proves to be someone else entirely. The room where Haytham finds himself now is much the same—his gut feeling is that this is someplace he knows well, somewhere he's spent a good deal of time. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't find a single specific memory of having been here. Not even once. And he doesn't know how he'd got here, or what he'd been doing.

Haytham flicks quickly between eagle vision and normal sight, checking for enemies. The boy is blue (Haytham hadn't really expected him to show up red, not a child this young), but the rest of the building seems to be occupied with allies as well. That's something of a relief. Haytham had been concerned that assassins might have somehow captured him, but apparently there are no enemies here.

Still, there are a few more questions than Haytham would have liked, and his most obvious source of answers is currently curled in a ball under the desk. Haytham crouches down and, after awkwardly clearing his throat, says, "Hello."

He watches, with a vague kind of interest, as the child curls into a ball smaller than he would have originally thought possible.

Haytham tries again. "Do you want to come out?"

The boy mumbles something, but he's so wrapped into himself that Haytham can't make out a word.

"Say that again," Haytham says, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. "I can't hear you when you mumble like that."

The boy hesitates, then sits up. He shuffles back so he's as far under the desk as possible, his back pressed against the wall and his arms wrapped around his legs so they're pulled right up against his chest. Haytham wonders if the boy is afraid he'll hurt him. Of course, if that's the case it's a rather pointless attempt at hiding. Haytham could have killed him in three seconds flat, if he'd tried. Not that he has any reason to do the child harm, he's not a monster.

“I'm not supposed to talk to you unless Dad’s here,” the boy mumbles. “Are you going to get mad again?”

“I’ve never met you before,” Haytham points out. “I can't exactly be angry with you  _ again _ . And I don't plan to be angry today. Now—”

He expects this to provide some level of comfort to the child, but instead he lets out a high pitched whine and starts to cry. Haytham stops midsentence and stares in blank incomprehension. He will readily admit to having very little experience with children (none at all, really), but he would have expected this one to calm down when told no one is angry with him. He flails for a moment, trying to think of something safe to say, something that will calm the boy down.

“What's your name?” he asks at last.

“ _ James, _ ” he says, like Haytham should have known that already, like it's upsetting that he doesn't. Haytham feels his temper start to flare a little, but before he can get really, properly annoyed, another emotion hits him like a blow. Suddenly Haytham is blinking back tears as well, and there's an ache in his chest like something important is gone.

“I knew someone called James once,” he says, before he can stop himself. And what a stupid thing to say, really. James is a popular name, he's known several people called James. “James Kidd.”

“ _ I'm  _ a kid,” James says. Haytham frowns, uncertain. He's not quite sure… He can't really remember.

“A different kind of kid,” he says at last.

"What kind?”

But Haytham can't bring Kidd’s face to mind, and it bothers him more than it should. He changes the subject instead. “Who is your father?”

“You know,” James says. “My daddy, you  _ know  _ my daddy!”

“No,” Haytham says blankly.

James immediately starts to cry in earnest. Haytham is still trying to figure out what to do when he hears footsteps hurrying toward him (and tenses). But when he turns around and sees the door opening, and Desmond hurrying through, the sight of him is so achingly familiar that Haytham feels reality come crashing down around him. He knows who he is, where he is, and what he's just done. He is not the same narrow minded, lonely man he had been in his first life, he's better than that.

James dashes past Haytham and into the safety of his father’s embrace, and for a moment both of them are too wrapped up in each other to acknowledge Haytham. James whimpers out his story, crying into Desmond's shoulder, and Desmond whispers quiet, soothing words into his ear. Finally, when James is calmer, Desmond sends him downstairs to find Evie, and turns his attention to Haytham, who braces himself.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I forgot."

Desmond leans against the desk James had been hiding under, and frowns. "Do you remember now?" he asks. His voice is tired, and Haytham can't quite meet his eyes.

"Yes," he says. For now. Until he starts bleeding again. "And I'm sorry. The things I said, when I was bleeding myself—my earlier self—"

"I know," Desmond says. "It's fine, you can't help it, I  _ know _ …" He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Did you… did you really tell James not to speak with me?"

Desmond heaves a sigh. "Evie did," he says. "Because every time he talks to you…" He gestures out the door, where James had gone running to find Evie.

"But you agree with her," Haytham says.

"It's not exactly like that, dad," Desmond mutters. "I just want to keep James safe, and happy. And right now…"

"I understand," Haytham says. "I wouldn't trust me with him, either. I don't know all the things I've said to him, but the things I can remember are all terrible."

"You can't help it," Desmond says quietly.

For a long minute, the two of them stay silent. Then Haytham clears his throat. "I remember," he says. "Once, when you were bleeding, you visited me. And you thought you were Altair, and tried to kill me. So what I want to know is… have I—I mean, have I done the same to anyone here? Have I tried to hurt you, or James—"

"No," Desmond says quickly. "Absolutely not."

Haytham gestures to his bare arms. "I can't help noticing that I'm not wearing my weapons," he points out.

"Just a precaution," Desmond says. "Seriously, you haven't hurt anyone."

There are ways to hurt a person without using a blade, of course. Haytham had seen the look on James's face. "Yes I have," he says glumly. "I've hurt everyone."

"Dad—"

"Will you tell James I'm sorry?" Haytham asks.

"You can tell him yourself," Desmond says. "Just… as long as someone else is around."

Haytham takes a step back. "No," he says at once. "No, I don't want to make anything worse."

Desmond droops a little. "Alright," he says. "I'll pass the message along."

"And will you tell him…" Haytham stops, biting his lip, before he can say  _ tell him I love him _ . After all the things he's done to his grandson, Haytham knows he doesn't deserve to love the boy.

"Tell him what?" Desmond says, as the pause presses on.

"Nothing," Haytham says. "Don't worry about it."


	17. Chapter 17

It's been a very long time since Dr. Wilkerson actually saw any of his most interesting patients. They still have regular sessions, of course (truth be told, they make up a solid percentage of his regular clientele). But they have their sessions over skype, or through email, or occasionally old fashioned snail mail.

Today, he'd arrived at his office to find Aveline and Shay in his waiting room, seated on either side of a distinctly unhappy looking Haytham. Dr. Wilkerson sees them and immediately texts his receptionist to not even bother coming in today. Just go down the list of today's clients and let them know they'll have to be rescheduled, he tells her. Something's come up, and he expects to be busy all day.

"Things must be really bad if you've come to see me in person," he jokes.

Nobody smiles, and Dr. Wilkerson wonders if maybe it isn't a joke to the three of them. Maybe things really are bad. "Alright," he says. "Which one of you needs my help today?"

"I do," Haytham says, quietly, still not looking at—well, at any of them, really. Dr. Wilkerson looks at him more carefully, and notices how he seems to be holding himself stiffly, how he won't let himself close to either of his lovers. Once, when Shay accidentally brushes against him, Haytham flinches away, then closes his eyes as if in extreme pain.

"Alright then," Dr. Wilkerson says, as his waiting room descends into uncomfortable silence. "Why don't you head through—I just need to collect a few things, I'll be along in a minute."

Haytham nods stiffly.

"Just don't sit on the couch," the therapist jokes. "It's a new one, I don't need to worry about cleaning it already."

Haytham gives him a look of pure, incomprehensible horror, but goes through to the next room and closes the door behind him. Dr. Wilkerson turns back to the other two, utterly confused.

"What's—"

"Have you ever heard of the bleeding effect?" Shay asks.

"Of course I have," Dr. Wilkerson says blankly. "I spend quite a lot of time talking to all of you." He's fairly sure they all know (more or less) what the others come to talk to him about. "And I've done some research. There's not much in academia about it, but ever since the Helix consoles came on the market, there's been more interest in the subject."

"Haytham's been bleeding very badly for several weeks now," Shay explains. "He was stuck in an animus for a while, and forced to live through Edward's memories, as well as some of his own. We've tried everything we can think of, and—"

"He  _ is  _ getting better," Aveline insists.

"But he still needs more help," Shay says. "He’ll get better for a while, and then all of a sudden he’s terrified of Connor again, or he doesn’t know his own face.”

 

“Two steps forward,” Aveline says softly. “And one step back.”

 

“So we thought of you." Shay sighs. "He was doing very well this morning, and we thought this would be a good time to come see you. But then on the way over he started bleeding bits of his younger self—"

"It's fine," Dr. Wilkerson says firmly. "I've done some research into the field, and I think I can handle this."

"Thank you," Aveline says. "Would you rather we wait out here?"

He's picturing Haytham flinching back from Shay when he says, "I think it would be best to start with a one on one session."

The two of them nod in reluctant understanding, and Dr. Wilkerson goes back into his office to join Haytham alone. "Alright," he says, when he's settled in his usual chair. "I can't claim to be an expert in the bleeding effect, but if you want to talk about it—"

"It doesn't matter!" Haytham says, and the words tear from him, almost violently. "I can't talk about that right now, I don't  _ care _ ."

"You, ah—don't care that you're bleeding?" Dr. Wilkerson says. "You are aware that you're doing it, aren't you? You know that—"

"Yes," Haytham snaps. "Yes, of course I know. But it doesn't matter, there's something more important than me to talk about."

"Which is…?"

"Shay," Haytham says. His voice is strangled and tight. "Aveline. There was a time… when I was young—or younger, anyway—when I couldn't admit that I loved them. And right now I know, in my head, that they love me and I love them. But I can't make myself  _ believe  _ it. There's this wall in my head and I just can't believe…"

"Haytham?"

He keeps talking, staring sightlessly past Dr. Wilkerson. It's hard to tell if he's ignoring his therapist, or if he's gone somewhere else, somewhere no one else can follow him.

"How could they possibly love me?" he whispers. "They have one another, they're  _ happy  _ with one another. And it would be wrong of me to—I couldn't—I  _ can't _ . If I let myself…" He sits there on his chair, shaking like a leaf. "If I let myself start loving them again, how would I ever stop?"

"Why would you want to stop?" Dr. Wilkerson asks, as kindly as possible.

"I don't," Haytham says. "But I can't be with them anymore, it would be wrong, they would  _ know _ ."

"Know what?"

"How I feel!"

"Haytham, I think we're all pretty well aware of that—"

Haytham makes a noise of pure, miserable shame, and no matter what Dr. Wilkerson says, he can't be convinced that Shay and Aveline are willing to continue loving him. By the end of the session, he has pulled himself into a tight, brittle shell, too stern to allow any hint of emotions to escape.

Dr. Wilkerson offers to let him stay longer—he had cancelled all his other appointments for the day, after all—but Haytham declines with a stiff, formal dismissal. He walks back out to the waiting room, where he only nods briefly to his lovers before retreating to the far end of the room.

Aveline comes over to Dr. Wilkerson, no doubt to ask for details of Haytham's session that they both know he can't give. But before she can even get a word out, Haytham bursts into sobs and throws himself at Shay. Dr. Wilkerson stares at him, surprised and confused, but Aveline only shakes her head sadly.

"That's the bleeding effect wearing off," she says quietly. "He's back to himself, for now. If we're lucky, he might not forget again, for a while." Dr. Wilkerson watches in silence as Shay holds Haytham against his chest, and Aveline hurries over to join them.

"It keeps taking you away from me," Haytham cries, when they're both with him. "I can't stand to lose you, and it keeps taking you away…"

It takes Shay and Aveline nearly a quarter of an hour to calm him, but when Haytham has stopped crying, Dr. Wilkerson leads all three of them back into his office. And—as he had predicted from the beginning—he spends the rest of the day and a good part of the evening with them. And at the end, when Haytham is clearly too emotionally exhausted to keep talking through his feelings for a moment more, Dr. Wilkerson reminds Shay and Aveline that he is always available to them.

"Thank you," Aveline says. He doesn't blame her for the utter lack of enthusiasm when she says, "I'm sure we'll be bringing him back soon."


	18. Chapter 18

Connor is careful never to let his white-hot anger show. He'd been shocked and appalled when his father had first come out of the Animus, and he'd mostly operated on autopilot through the rest of the mission--taking out Abstergo guards with quick shots, helping to get Haytham into the car, driving the preplanned circuitous route back home to the safehouse. He'd noted, distantly, the numb look of horror on Shay's face, Aveline's longing, Altaïr's grim determination, Lucy's sorrow, Edward's crushed hope, Rebecca's uncertainty. And he'd closed himself off, focused on the mission.

One day, though, it gets to be too much for him, seeing his father broken and shaking on the couch. This is _Abstergo's_ doing. They've stolen his father from him, and they're still stealing him. It's not fair. Connor's only really been able to get to know his father these past few years, only really started to build a father-son relationship. And now this. And something of his rage must show on his face, because Haytham looks up at him, sighs heavily, and tilts his head.

"Make it quick," he says, gesturing to the scars on his neck.

"What?" Connor nearly snaps.

"You're going to kill me, right?" Haytham asks. "Well, I don't want to fight this time. Not again."

Connor stares.

Haytham continues, "I feel like I've fought you a hundred times and I--I just can't. Not anymore. So just go ahead and kill me, I'll make it easy if you make it quick."

"I am not going to kill you, Father," Connor insists.

Haytham blinks away tears. "Why wouldn't you? I'm a terrible father, and you said--"

"Father," Connor interrupts. "Forget what I said. I have--"

"I can't," Haytham whispers. "I can't forget. I saw it so many times, I'll never forget."

Connor sits on the couch beside his father, and takes his hand. "I was wrong. I was wrong about you, and you have suffered for it twice now. And now I am going to make up for it, and I am going to look after you." He squeezes Haytham's hand and, after a moment, Haytham squeezes back.

* * *

Haytham is himself, for now. Himself enough to shudder and shake with dread and sorrow, his head in Aveline's lap as she combs the tangles out of his hair. She wishes she could do more to comfort him, but when she tried hugging him, he just quivered stiffly in her arms. Whatever is happening in his afflicted mind, it permits nothing more than this. And so she combs his hair, when she would be willing to do anything, _anything_ , if it would only help him.

He turns his head to look up at her, and frowns. "You look sad. Is it my fault?"

Aveline forces a smile as her heart breaks. "No, Haytham, it's not. It's most definitely not your fault."

He frowns, lip sticking out a touch petulantly. "It _is_ because of me. I'm making you sad."

She shakes her head briskly. "No, you're not. The people who hurt you are making me sad."

Haytham bites his lip. " _I_ make you sad. I'm no good for you. You shouldn't care for me; you should just be with Shay. He makes you happy. I don't."

Aveline shakes her head again. "No, every time you get better, every time you're a little more like the Haytham I know, you make me very happy."

"What if I don't ever get better?" he asks. "What if this is the best I'll ever be? What if I can't make love to you ever again? Because I'm a madman?"

"Then I will still love you, Haytham Kenway. I will always, _always_ love you."

"I'm sure at a time like this you must regret falling in love with me," he persists.

"No, never," she tells him firmly, stroking his hair. "I regret nothing. Not when it comes to you.”

* * *

Haytham is sitting at the kitchen table shivering, clenching his jaws together, and hugging himself.

"You know, you're really awesome," Clay tells him conversationally. "I'm totally in awe."

Haytham looks up, biting his lip. "Pardon me if I don't quite feel 'awesome' today. It's taking all I have to stay Haytham."

Clay nods vigorously. "I know! And you're fighting it off. You _are_ being you, not Edward."

Haytham scoffs. "Nobody else has to concentrate so hard just to be themselves. It's easy for everyone else."

"Once it wasn't easy for me," Clay reminds him. "Or for Desmond. And both he and I had to die to get over the bleeding effect. I think what you're doing, fighting it, that takes so much more than we had to do."

Haytham blinks. "I had not thought of it that way," he admits. "All I see is how hard I must struggle just to have a basic level of sanity which others find effortless."

Clay nods. "I know, and I wanted to let you know that I see how hard you're trying, maybe better than other people might."

Haytham nods. "Well, thank you."

Clay grins. "Anytime, you evil Templar."


	19. Chapter 19

"Was I that bad, when I was bleeding?" Elena asks her dad. The two of them are in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to give Haytham for dinner. He's been particularly unstable today, bouncing between moments of lucidity and total madness. It's impossible to know if he'll want the kind of food he likes or the kind of food Edward likes, and of course there's almost no overlap between the two. And then on top of that, Haytham is usually too unstable to manage a fork and knife. He just sits there and shakes, until finally—if he is mostly Edward—his frustration at his own uselessness boils over into anger and he starts throwing things. If he's mostly Haytham, that same frustration will turn to shame instead, and he will curl into himself, go quiet and still. If he doesn't know who he is, the confusion leads to horrible, screaming fits—Edward's anger mixed with Haytham's shame.

Meals are hard.

"Um…" Dad glances away from the fridge and looks at Elena. "Not really. Everyone's bleeding effect symptoms are different. And you had Owen to help."

"Why haven't you asked Owen to help since Grandpa came back?" Elena asks.

"He hasn't exactly helped him so far," Dad snaps. Elena flinches, even though she's pretty sure all his anger is directed at Owen and not her. "I don't want to risk Dad getting any worse."

Elena goes quiet, and just nods. "So… so I wasn't like that, right? Because I don't really remember it that well, and he's, um… he's kind of freaking me out."

Dad stops rooting through cupboards and comes over to give her a tight hug, the kind that only he can give. "You weren't that bad," he assures her. "And you're never going to start bleeding again. You're better now, you're  _ fine _ ."

"Grandpa's going to be fine too, isn't he?" Elena asks. "He'll get better?"

"He, ah…" Dad pulls away, turns back to making Haytham's dinner. "I hope so. We'll see. For now, we just need to take it one day at a time, and give him a chance to get over the things that have happened to him." He sighs. "What about chicken nuggets?" he asks. "Do you think he could manage those?"

"I think so," Elena says.

"Hmm." Dad frowns. "But if he's feeling like himself, he'll want mustard with them."

"But then if he throws it, we'll be cleaning mustard stains off the carpet for ages," Elena finishes.

"Exactly."

Dad opens the freezer and frowns at the bag of frozen chicken nuggets. They're for James, technically—he'd begged and begged for the ones shaped like dinosaurs. But James is capable of hanging onto a fork and right now Haytham isn't. James can have something else for dinner tonight.

"We'll just tell him we're out of mustard if he asks," Dad decides. "I can't find anything else that would be alright for him to eat."

He sets a half dozen chicken nuggets on a plate, then sticks the whole thing into a microwave to cook. The two of them stare at the microwave as it counts down the seconds. "Do you want me to take his dinner up to him?" Dad asks at one point.

"I'm alright," Elena says. "We're all taking turns with watching him—I want to do my share, and it's my turn now."

Dad gives Elena a genuinely grateful smile as the nuggets finish cooking, and Elena feels a bit calmer. She doesn't like spending time with Haytham, these days. It's a terrible thing to think, but… well, he sort of scares her. She wants him back, the way he used to be.

Elena carries the food upstairs, to Haytham's door, then steels herself and knocks. Someone calls "Come in," and she does.

Haytham is curled up on his bed, facing the wall, and Connor is sitting nearby, looking incredibly tired. Elena has seen him old, occasionally, from visits with Matthew, and even then he had not looked as worn as this. "You can go," she says. "Um—if you want."

Connor nods, stiffly, and gets up from his chair. "I'm going," he says.

"Good," Haytham says, at once. "I've been telling you I don't need a babysitter."

"It's not like that," Connor argues. "It's—" But then he sighs and shakes his head. It is like that. "Elena's here," he says instead. "Is it alright if she stays?"

"No," Haytham says. "Since you asked, I don't need to be watched and I don't want to be pitied. I would like to be alone."

"I brought you dinner," Elena says, half lifting her pitiful food offering. She can see lunch sitting, uneaten, on his desk. She puts the chicken nuggets next to the first dish.

"Good luck," Connor whispers to her, and in a rare gesture of familiarity, puts his hand on her shoulder for a moment before leaving. Elena nods, and settles into the chair Connor had just vacated. She thinks, from the tone of Haytham's voice, that he is himself at the moment. Which means that instead of dealing with stiff, awkward Haytham (the way he used to be in his first life) or the impossible wrongness of Haytham-Edward, she'll be dealing with moody, unhappy Haytham. But at least he'll know her.

"Can we talk?" Elena asks, after a while. "It… I'm just worried about…" She bites her lip. "Please say something, Grandpa."

"I would like you to leave," Haytham says.

"I can't," Elena says. "And I don't want to! I don't get it—you spend all this time bleeding, and then when you're finally yourself for a little while, you don't want to talk to your family?"

There's a very long, drawn out pause. Haytham sighs. "I would love to, Elena. I would. But I'm not myself. I can feel—"

"You can feel your dad crawling into your head," Elena says. "And sometimes it kind of feels okay, because he's your dad and he's supposed to keep you safe. But then sometimes it just feels like having him in your head is tearing you apart because there's not enough room for both of you."

Haytham rolls over. Sits up. Elena tries not to look like this is the most promising sign she's seen from him in ages. "You understand," he says.

Elena shrugs. "I was bleeding once too, remember," she says. "I was in an animus. I thought I was someone else."

"I know," Haytham says. "But you got better. I'm… worse than you were. Owen couldn't help me the way he helped you. So there's nothing I can do, I'm just going to be bleeding forever."

"No," Elena says firmly. "Owen's great." She knows not everyone agrees with her right now, because he wasn't able to help Haytham. He has a hard job, and he does the best he can. It doesn't always work. "But he's not the only way to get over the bleeding effect, you know? You can beat it, because you're strong."

"I was."

"You  _ are, _ " Elena insists. "But you know what's not helping? Ignoring everyone instead of trying to get back to being yourself. You're just… look, I know you can't help being sort of crazy sometimes, but like right now you're you, and we could be having a nice conversation but you're just moping and that can't be any more fun for you than it is for me." She stops, and takes a deep breath. "Sorry."

Haytham considers her. "I don't want you to be disappointed in me," he says. "I don't want any of you to pity me. And if you have to do those things, then I don't want to know about it."

"Nobody is disappointed," Elena says. "Nobody pities you. I think we're all just frustrated, because this whole thing sucks and you—" She isn't sure if Haytham is going to want to hear this. "You're acting like you don't want to be helped."

Haytham seems to be struggling to choose his words. At last, he says, "I am not particularly good at asking others for help."

"You don't have to ask," Elena says. "We're doing everything we can to help you already. All you have to do is accept it."

Haytham smiles, just a tiny fraction.

They spend the next hour talking about normal things. Haytham asks Elena about school, and it's so trivial, so absolutely boring, that Elena can't stop smiling. For just a little while, he seems to forget to worry about bleeding.

Haytham is calling himself Edward again by the time Arno comes to replace Elena. But there had been a moment ( _ more  _ than a moment, nearly a full hour) when he was himself. Really himself! Elena smiles as she hurries downstairs to tell her dad everything that's just happened. He's going to be thrilled.


	20. Chapter 20

Haytham is well enough to know he's Haytham most of the day most days; he's no longer crying in the corner or flinching when Connor comes near. His emotions are unstable, though, much to his embarrassment, and he has long discussions with people who are not actually there. Or, once, to his chagrin, he had an entire conversation with an Ezio from his memory while Ezio himself kept trying to interrupt.

But it's a sign of progress that he will sit silently without fear next to Connor on the ramshackle deck behind the safehouse. They watch the wind stir the dead weeds, and then Connor sees something else moving among them. A lifetime of hunting has left its mark on his instincts, and he's stalking and snatching the animal before he fully processes that it's a fluffy gray kitten, hair matted in places, with a piece of gum stuck to its leg. It mews pitifully as he picks it up and checks for a collar, and Connor has an idea.

"Father, would you like a cat?" It's something to take care of, he rationalizes, for the man who hates being taken care of. It's something for Haytham to focus on besides his own illness.

Haytham is cautious as Connor places the animal in his lap, but settles into petting the kitten with a slight smile on his face. "He sounds hungry. They have special food for kittens now, you know."

"We shall have to get some," Connor says, with the hint of a smile. He ducks to look between the kitten’s back legs. “For… him.”

"He looks like a Marco, don't you think? Like Marco from the show I was watching. Very handsome," Haytham says, playing with the kitten, who bats at his hand.

Desmond insists that Marco go to the vet immediately, but once he's been pronounced disease-free and gotten all his vaccinations, he fits in nicely at the safehouse, even rousing Lion from her aged laziness with his adorable antics. And he does wonders for Haytham, who seems healthier and saner after playing with the kitten, not so prone to bleeding Edward or getting trapped in his own memories. Connor begins to cautiously hope for greater improvement.

Until, that is, the day he finds Haytham staring off into the distance, his hand on Marco and a childlike smile on his face. "Look at Cuddles," he whispers in a piping voice. "She likes me just as much as Jenny!" He pets the cat, who meows, and then Haytham smiles delightedly and squeaks in response.

Connor stares, frozen in mingled horror and sympathy. He dimly remembers his father as a child, proudly showing off a fat lump of fur with beady eyes. He'd called the guinea pig Cuddles, and he was so proud that she'd eat carrots from his hand. "Haytham..." he begins, then trails off. It's the bleeding effect again, but at least he's bleeding a happy memory that Connor is loath to pull him from.

Elena walks up then, talking under her breath. "And, Jenny, you should see him. It's really sad, it'll break your..." She trails off, seeing the expression on Connor's face. "...heart...."

"Jenny!" Haytham says, looking up at her.

Elena doesn't really think she looks that much like Jenny, but she guesses she's about the right age. She looks to Connor, and murmurs, "Should I have her talk to him?"

Connor shrugs with one shoulder. He's not sure if Jenny could make things better or worse.

Elena closes her eyes, and then opens them with a sulky expression that changes to one of worry as Jenny bends over her seated brother. "Haytham? Are you all right?"

Haytham covers Marco with his hands. "Don't be mad at me, Jenny, I was just petting Cuddles."

Jenny looks at the cat and then at Haytham, and bites her lip. "I'm not mad at you, little brother. I'm glad you love Cuddles so much."

Haytham beams up at her, then frowns. "Why are you crying, Jenny? Did Father say you couldn't learn to use a sword?"

Connor thinks Jenny must be significantly older than Elena right now, by the pained expression on her face. "Yes," she tells him bluntly. "I think bad things are going to happen because of it."

Haytham thinks, then grins. "Well, once I learn how, I'll teach you, all right? I'll teach you in secret and then we can go on adventures together. It'll be great! And then you won't be able to be mean to me because I'll have taught you how to wield a sword and that's what you want the most." His grin gets even wider. "And then you'll let me pet Cuddles whenever I want, right?" He strokes the cat's ears.

"Sure," Jenny whispers, bending down to hug Haytham. "Whenever you want, Haytham, whenever you want."

"You're squeezing me," he complains.

"I just love you a lot and I haven't seen you in...hours. That's all. Just hours." Jenny tries to hide her tears.

Connor finds his eyes are inexplicably wet as well, watching them.


	21. Chapter 21

There's always someone with him these days, and Haytham is getting sick of it. He doesn't need supervision, he's  _ fine _ . Really, honestly, fine. Not exactly sane, but he thinks he's on the road to recovery. Surely, there doesn't need to be a minder with him every moment of every day.

And every night. It's nearly midnight, but Haytham knows he won't be getting any sleep. Not while Ezio is sitting by the door, trying not to fall asleep. Normally Connor takes the night shifts, now that Haytham is past panicking at the sight of his son. Shay takes his place, occasionally. Haytham doesn't mind them now that he's bleeding less, he trusts them, he can let himself sleep with them around. But not tonight—tonight, it's Ezio, nodding off where he sits. Haytham expects he must have been up late the night before, possibly on a mission, possibly with a girl, and possibly with Haytham's father. He tries not to think about this.

Haytham sighs, and looks over from where he's sitting at his desk. "You can use the bed, Ezio," he says. "It looks like you're more likely to fall asleep tonight than I am."

Ezio hesitates. "I'm supposed to be looking after you," he points out, which makes Haytham bristle with distaste.

"I'm a fully grown man," he says frostily. "I don't need looking after. I can take care of myself."

"Not when you're bleeding," Ezio says gently.

"And I'm not," Haytham says.

"But you might."

Haytham rolls his eyes. "I will wake you if I feel myself start to slip," he says.

"You'll know?"

"I can tell when it starts," Haytham lies. He just wants Ezio asleep for a while—it won't be as good as actually being left alone, but at least he won't be able to feel those incessant eyes on him. "I will wake you, I promise."

"Well…" Ezio puts up a show of hesitating, but Haytham can tell that he'll agree. He looks far too tired to stay awake through the night, and after a tactful amount of time spent pretending to consider Haytham's offer, he nods his acceptance.

Within ten minutes, he's fast asleep. Haytham nods in approval and relaxes as he turns back to the news site he's been browsing through for the past several hours. He's… missed a lot. First while he was kidnapped, and then while he hadn't been himself. It's time to start catching up.

For nearly two hours, he reads. But then he starts to yawn, and his eyelids grow heavy, and suddenly the bed is looking extremely comfortable. It helps that Ezio is lying in it, of course. He knows that Ezio is an extremely good cuddler—why had he been so upset at the idea of Ezio here in the first place? Christ, they've  _ slept  _ together. That time when Haytham had been worried about his attraction to Kidd, his  _ unnecessary gay crisis _ , as Desmond had so… eloquently put it.

Of course, it's easy to look at it now that he knows Kidd had been a woman, and realize exactly how unnecessary the whole thing had been. But he  _ hadn't _ known, had he? And he'd insisted on a practice run with Ezio, which had ended up—well, Ezio isn't Haytham's favorite bedfellow, among the visitors. He's no Shay, no Aveline either. But that night had been  _ fun _ , hadn't it? And…well, Haytham is loyal now, he has no intention of leaving Aveline and Shay the way he had left Ziio, or Caroline, but…

Well, there's nothing disloyal about curling up in bed with another fellow, is there? Particularly if there's only one bed available. And it's Haytham's bed in the first place, so it's not like Ezio can complain. Decision made, Haytham strips off his shirt and pulls the tie out of his hair, getting as comfortable as possible before slipping into bed behind Ezio. He curls around the other man, pulling him into his arms, tangling their legs together. In his sleep, Ezio makes a little noise that Haytham chooses to interpret as appreciation.

When had he last shared a bed, with anyone? He should talk to Shay and Aveline, see if… if they still want him in their bed with them. After all, he's not bleeding the way he had been in the first few days. He's not just forgetting who he is, mixing himself up with his younger self, or with his father.

Haytham curls forward, resting his forehead against Ezio's back.

He is completely himself, definitely, 100% himself, and it feels good. So maybe he was fibbing a little when he told Ezio he'd be able to tell as soon as he started bleeding, but surely he'd know, right? He’s not thinking of himself as Edward, he’s not slipping into another accent. Haytham does a careful mental inventory, just to make sure, and nothing about his thoughts or behavior strikes him as odd. Satisfied, he presses himself closer to Ezio and drifts off to sleep with the reassuring warmth of his visitor all around him.

Sometime later--maybe an hour, maybe two, it’s hard to tell for sure and all Haytham really knows is that he’s still  _ tired _ \--Ezio shakes him awake. He looks alarmed.

“Haytham!” he hisses, when Haytham opens his eyes. “ _ Haytham _ !”

He makes a little grumbling noise, but works to compose himself. “Yes?” he manages, after a lengthy pause.

“Are you, ah…” Ezio frowns. Haytham frowns back, because he’s none too happy about being shaken out of a perfectly good sleep. And even worse, Ezio has moved out of good hugging position, which means it’ll take longer to drop off again. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Of course I am,” Haytham says. “I told you, I’m not bleeding.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Haytham,” Haytham says. This answer only seems to mildly reassure Ezio, however, and Haytham feels a jolt of electric panic buzz through him. He’s not… he’s not  _ wrong _ , is he? He’s not someone else, bleeding Haytham? It wouldn’t be the first time that kind of mix up happened. “I am Haytham,” he says, quick and urgent. “Aren’t I?”

“You are,” Ezio assures him, and Haytham breathes a sigh of relief. “But, um--I have to ask, since you know who you are, and you’re not bleeding… why were we cuddling?”

Haytham flops back on his pillow. His initial relief at being assured he is who he thinks he is has rapidly given way to annoyance. What a question for Ezio to ask--as if there’s anything unusual about a hug in the middle of the night. Ezio of all people should know, he’s the only visitor more open with his hugs than Haytham. Well--him and Edward. Haytham spares a moment to think longingly of his father. They’re both so fond of cuddling, why don’t they share a bed more often?

“Haytham,” Ezio prompts him sharply.

“Sorry,” Haytham says, shaking his head--he offers Ezio a silly smile which for some reason only makes Ezio’s frown deeper. “Mind was wandering--you wouldn’t believe how often I nearly sank the  _ Jackdaw  _ because I got distracted.”

“Haytham…” Ezio hesitates. “You do know Edward captained the  _ Jackdaw _ , right? It wasn’t you? And it’s Edward that likes cuddling, you hate it--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Haytham scoffs. “I might not know my own name sometimes, but I know I’m not wrong about this. I  _ remember  _ all those years on the  _ Jackdaw _ , they’re--I can’t describe it, Ezio, but they’re the brightest memories I have. Of course they’re real.”

“They’re not.”

“They are. Ask Ade, he’ll tell you. And I know I like cuddling, because--” he casts about for a convincing argument, but it’s just so ridiculous. He has so many memories of curling up around his visitors, it’s just absurd to think they might not belong to him. It’s like Ezio has suddenly decided to argue the sky is orange instead of blue. But… of  _ course _ . Haytham smiles slightly to himself. This must be a test. Ezio knows Haytham is getting better, so he’s questioning him to see if he can make him doubt himself, just so he’ll know if Haytham can be talked out of this absolute, certain knowledge of who he is. He is Haytham Kenway. Father to Connor and Desmond and Grace and Jenny, widower of Caroline Scott, estranged lover of Ziio, happily devoted to Shay Cormac and Aveline de Grandpre. He is a Templar Grandmaster, pirate and captain of the  _ Jackdaw _ , and a damn good cuddler.

“I know I like cuddling,” he repeats, when at last a good example comes to mind. “Because I have all these memories of cuddling with Desmond while  _ he  _ was bleeding, right? And I know he wasn’t calling me dad then, but I cared for him. I wouldn’t have let him spend all those nights alone and losing his mind, so it  _ must  _ have been me sleeping with him. He’s my son, I wouldn’t have let him suffer.”

Ezio bites his lip. “That was Edward. I  _ saw  _ him doing it.”

“Well, that was kind of him,” Haytham says. He can tell Ezio thinks this is a convincing argument, but Haytham is just grateful his father had been there for Desmond on the nights visiting wouldn’t let Haytham himself hold him.

“And it was  _ Edward  _ on the  _ Jackdaw _ ,” Ezio presses on.

“Of course I know he captained her for a while,” Haytham says dismissively. “I used to visit him while he was at sea--but I had my turn at the helm as well, you know.”

“How exactly--you-- _ what _ ?” Ezio is frowning at him in absolute confusion. “The  _ Jackdaw _ sank when you were a child, Haytham. I was visiting Ade when he found the wreck.”

“Not possible,” Haytham says at once, but there’s something… it’s like a little twitch at the back of his head, like suddenly his memories have turned into a jigsaw puzzle, only there’s a hole in the middle and someone’s trying to jam in a piece from another puzzle entirely and it just won’t  _ fit _ . It doesn’t make sense, Ezio has to be lying--only Ezio doesn’t lie often. He has his faults but he doesn’t often  _ lie _ . But then that would mean that Haytham never… that his memories…

He doesn’t want to think about it,  _ he doesn’t want to think about it _ . There has to be some simple explanation, but suddenly Haytham can’t get the niggling questions out of his head, he can’t find the fault in Ezio’s logic that would let his memories make sense. Because they are his memories, they have to be. He knows who he is, after weeks and weeks of just… of having absolutely no idea, Haytham finally knows who he is. Even Ezio admitted he has the right name, so his memories have to be right as well.

But the questions--the holes Ezio is poking in his memories--they’re filling up his mind, threatening to crack it right open.  _ Fuck it _ , there are other things to fill a busy mind with, and Haytham knows his favorite. He’s not going to shag Ezio here, not while Shay and Aveline are asleep in their room down the hall, waiting for him to be well enough to rejoin them. But he jerks forward and mashes his face into Ezio’s, he squeezes his eyes closed and kisses him. They’ve done this before, when Haytham still thought Kidd was a man, and wanted the practice. He’s learned a lot about kissing men since then of course, mostly from Shay. Maybe that’s why Ezio lets the kiss go on (and on and on), long enough for Haytham’s sense of self to stabilize again. Of course he’d spent time as the  _ Jackdaw’s  _ captain. Of course he cuddles. Ezio  _ must  _ be testing him, he really is making things up just to see if Haytham can be swayed. Well,  _ he can't. _

He relaxes. Ezio starts grinding his hips against him, but Haytham pulls back and shakes his head sharply. “Look,” he says. “Kissing is one thing. That’s just… it helps with the bleeding effect. Ask Desmond, he used to kiss  _ me  _ when the bleeding effect was particularly bad. But nothing else, alright? I’m not going to betray Shay and Aveline like that.”

Ezio, to his credit, looks vaguely ashamed. “So you do remember them?” he asks. “You remember you love them?”

Haytham almost says  _ How could I forget,  _ only of course he had forgotten. Many times. It’s a valid question. “I remember,” he says instead, and for a long moment Ezio just looks at him, searching his face. Apparently he finds what he’s looking for, because he nods reluctantly.

“Well I suppose… that’s progress,” he says. “I mean, it seems like you’re still getting pieces of yourself confused with Edward, but you know your name, you know Shay and Aveline, so I guess you’re… doing better?” He phrases it like a question, so Haytham nods. He is doing better, certainly. And he’s sure he’s not getting himself mixed up with Edward anymore, of course not. But he’s tired, and he just wants to stop talking and get back to hugging.

“So you don’t mind if we cuddle tonight?” he asks. “Since I’m doing better.”

Ezio sighs and shrugs. “I suppose you can’t completely recover overnight,” he says. “As long as it doesn’t make things worse, I guess there’s no problem.”

“I appreciate it,” Haytham says seriously. He latches onto Ezio again, curling around him tightly enough to make sure Ezio won’t wiggle out again. Then he rests his head against Ezio’s shoulder, nuzzling in and closing his eyes. They’re so close he can feel Ezio’s chest rising and falling, gradually slowing as Ezio drifts off to sleep. His breath comes out in little puffs against Haytham’s cheek, and his gentle snoring vibrates against Haytham’s chest.

Haytham smiles, utterly comfortable with his visitor curled up around him, serenely at peace with his mind finally back in place. He drifts off to sleep with the smile still on his face, and dreams of coming home to the  _ Jackdaw _ , of showing Grace around his beautiful ship, of his little girl’s bright face beaming up at him from the deck.

It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in ages.


	22. Chapter 22

It's his first time at a templar meeting since before his kidnapping, and Haytham can't pretend this isn't exciting. So he doesn't even try, he  _ beams  _ at the assembled men and women, and none of them think it's odd because most of them are smiling too. Several of them go out of their way to tell him how glad they are to have him back, but Haytham knows he's not the reason they're all so happy. This isn't just his return to the order, it's an important day. There are nearly thirty recruits being initiated as templar initiates today, the largest group since Haytham and Shay first started to revive the order. They're the reason Shay had agreed to let Haytham come to this meeting in the first place. It's a bit of a risk, because Haytham is still bleeding frequently, but this really is a special event. Earlier this morning, Shay had tried to tell Haytham something about why this group of initiates is so important, but Haytham had started bleeding in the middle of his explanation—nothing too bad. According to Shay, he'd been acting completely normally. It's just that Haytham has this big, blank spot in his memory that covers most of the morning, and ends about ten minutes after their arrival at the place where the initiation is to be held.

So he tries to shake off the minor scare, and focuses on the new initiates. About a third of them are people they'd converted from Abstergo's cause. Good people with a genuine desire to become templars, stuck with Abstergo because they had no other choice. Another third are new people, mostly strangers to Haytham. Shay has found them, trained them, determined their loyalty.

The last third is the most interesting. Teenagers and young adults, the next generation of the order. There are more of them than Haytham had expected, to be honest. Teenagers are more commonly drawn to the assassin way of life, to a brotherhood that preaches freedom from oppressors (such as, for example, parents), which Haytham chooses not to hold against them because teenagers are drawn to all sorts of foolish things.

But Shay has done well to find these young people. Haytham has only spoken to a few of them—most are in another room, avoiding the dull adult conversations—but those few have impressed him with their maturity and understanding. They seem to realize that the world needs some amount of guidance—humanity is fractured and disordered and unwilling to put aside their differences for the greater good.

The ceremony begins. There's a little more pomp than Haytham would have used, but he can't exactly blame Shay. The man had started out as an assassin, and maybe the initiation doesn't involve ceremonially removing a finger anymore, but the brotherhood does seem to like their dramatics.

Shay goes through each initiate, briefly mentioning something about them, pointing out a trait or deed that shows why they'll make a good templar, making every person feel special. He goes through the adults first, then gets to the teenagers. They're nearly half an hour in now, and Haytham's attention has just started to wander when he hears a familiar name.

"Grace Kenway," Shay says, and Haytham's heart almost stops. He hadn't known… had anyone told him, that his daughter was going to be initiated today? He quickly turns back to the crowd of teenagers and finds her there—she must have been out of the room with the others earlier, there's no way he would have missed her.

At twelve years old, she's one of the youngest initiates (most are in their late teens, although there  _ are  _ a few even younger than Grace). But when she stands, as the others had done when their names were called, it strikes Haytham suddenly how grown up she is.

Haytham barely hears what Shay says about Grace, he barely hears anything for the rest of the ceremony. After, he tracks down Grace and hugs her for nearly a full minute. "Did I know that you'd decided to do this?" he asks. "Did anyone tell me?"

"Yea," Grace says. "I told you before I started training."

"I didn't…" He hadn't noticed that at all. "Was I bleeding?"

She pulls away a little, straightens her clothes self consciously. "No," she says. "I checked. But… I mean you bleed a lot, so maybe you forgot."

"I probably did," he says. "Grace, I'm so sorry—"

"It's okay," she says quickly.

It's not, really. Haytham changes the subject. "But what made you decide to do this?" he asks. "I thought you didn't want to be an assassin  _ or  _ a templar."

"I know how bad Abstergo is, now," she says. "I used to think there were three kinds of people in the world—assassins and templars and everyone else. Then Abstergo kidnapped you and I realized there was another kind of person, the Abstergo kind of person that hurts people just because they  _ can _ , and I'm not okay with that. I want them gone, and I want to do it the way you and Papa do. The assassins—they'd get rid of Abstergo and then just let people do whatever they want. But I know the templars… I know  _ we  _ won't do that. We'll get rid of Abstergo, and make sure people like that can't band together to hurt others again."

"Your mother would say that's taking choice away from people," Haytham says.

Grace lifts her head a little, proud and determined. "But  _ I  _ say there are bad things in the world," she says. "And lots of people that can't protect themselves. The templars can give that protection, so I'm proud to be part of that."

"And I'm glad," Haytham says. "But you never wanted to kill, before."

This flusters her a little, and she drops her eyes a little. "I still don't want to," she says. "I haven't been training with weapons—well, a little. Just to defend myself. But that's not a templar thing, that's just Elena's idea." She rolls her eyes like the teenager she almost is. "She's gotten  _ very  _ overprotective since I decided to join the order. But… I mean I'm not all that great at fighting. I thought about doing computer stuff but I'm not so good at that either. But I'm really good with  _ people _ , so that's what I'm going to do."

"Oh?"

Grace nods, eager. "It was Lucy's idea. She says sometimes you have to fight with a blade, and sometimes you have to fight with words. When I'm older, if my training works out okay, then doing my job means other people don't have to go in with weapons and do  _ theirs _ ."

Haytham gives her another tight hug, and Grace beams.

"So what  _ is  _ your training?" he asks.

And she's off, talking his ear off about the things she's been doing—talking to people mostly, going into areas where the templars run missions and finding out what the people they're trying to help actually  _ want _ . Again, Haytham is struck by how quickly she's grown up. Her voice is full of passion that a little girl just wouldn't be capable of.

Little bits of Edward start slipping into his head as he listens, but Haytham grits his teeth and holds on as best he can. He doesn't want to ruin this day for Grace by forgetting his own name. It works for a while, but when some of the younger initiates call her over for something, Haytham gets distracted. Just for a second.

But that's all it takes.

The next thing he knows, he's on the roof, missing his shirt and one shoe, singing sea shanties at the top of his lungs. Shay is at his side, pleading with him to come back to himself. Haytham giggles. "No, 's okay," he says, words slurring. "Shay, 'm fine."

"You're bleeding," Shay says. "Do you know your name?"

It doesn't seem to matter so much. "Haytham!" he crows. Shay relaxes. "And I am….  _ very  _ drunk."

"That's just the bleeding," Shay says. "I promise, no one has let you have any alcohol."

"No," Haytham says. "No, no, no. Shay, I am skunk as a drunk."

Shay sighs, and very carefully helps Haytham off the roof. They get back in the car, where Grace is already waiting in the back seat, texting someone. She gives Haytham a brief look of disappointment that he is  _ almost  _ too drunk to notice, then says, "Papa, can you drop me off at Mark's house on the way home? We were talking about some stuff after the ceremony, but um…" she glances nervously at Haytham. "He left while we were trying to get Dad off the roof."

"Who's Mark?" Haytham says. Shay squeezes his forearm gently. Warningly.

"You just met him," Grace says. She looks up from her phone to meet his eyes. "Remember? He's going to be a templar too, we were initiated together."

Haytham fumbles through his mixed up memories. Templars? Um… no, no, they're the bad guys. Right? Right! Because templars are stuffy and boring, they don't drink and Haytham's mind is floating in a lovely cloud of rum. "No daughter of mine is going to be a templar," he says. Shay gives him a  _ shut up _ look. It's very similar to Adewale's  _ shut up  _ look, actually. Damn—he's a templar. "No offense, Shay," he adds. "You're okay, as far as templars go." He leans over to Shay, puts a hand on his muscular chest. "Very pretty."

Shay, gently but firmly, removes Haytham's hands and prods him back to his side of the car.

"Papa—" Grace says.

Haytham turns around to face her. "Don't be a templar," he says. "I will be  _ very  _ disappointed if you join the templars."

"I'll take you to Mark's," Shay tells Grace. He starts the car and drives off—it takes about ten minutes to get to Mark's house, and Haytham spends the entire time listing all the reasons Grace shouldn't be a templar—they're boring, they're smelly, they're ugly. He has great fun explaining how most templars remind him of a half dead slug he'd once seen. Grace stares out the window and doesn't say anything, not even when Haytham promises to never speak with her again if she decides to be a templar.

Grace chokes out a little  _ bye  _ when Shay stops in an ordinary looking driveway, and Haytham thinks he sees her wiping her eyes furiously as she heads for the door.

Haytham goes back to his sea shanties, and sings the whole way home. But then when they're there, he suddenly feels ill—he barely makes it to the bathroom before vomiting. Aveline comes to sit next to him, and stays crouched at his side as he empties his stomach as he just throws up over and over again, until he's gagging and spitting bile but nothing else.

He's starting to feel sober again. Or hungover, at least. His head is killing him, and his mouth feels fuzzy and dry. "Aveline," he says. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she assures him. She stands up to fill a cup with water from the sink, then hands it back down to Haytham. He drinks greedily, trying to wash away the aftertaste of being sick.

"I shouldn't have had anything to drink," Haytham mutters. "I know it mixes badly with the bleeding effect."

"Shay said you didn't have anything at all to drink," Aveline says.

"I didn't?"

"There wasn't even anything  _ to  _ drink there."

"I felt like I was drunk," Haytham says. "I really did…" He takes a breath. "I suppose the bleeding effect has found a new way to torment me, if I'm just bleeding being drunk."

"It's not your fault," Aveline reminds him.

"I think it was," Haytham says.

"How?" she asks. "You can't control it."

"Please," Haytham begs. "I don't want to argue this."

She sighs. "Are you still feeling sick?" she asks. "Or do you want to go lie down?"

"I'd like to lie down," he agrees, and Aveline helps him into bed and kisses him before leaving the room. Haytham is grateful—he hates being seen like this. Shay is at the desk, typing something up. Haytham just curls up on his side, and for a while thinks about nothing but the pounding in his head. But after a while, he says, "I ruined things for Grace, didn't I?"

He hears Shay's typing stop, and a moment later, he's sitting next to Haytham on the bed, running his fingers through Haytham's hair. It's surprisingly soothing. "I don't think you ruined anything," he says. "Grace has been wanting to tell you about her training for a while now, but…"

"But I'm a madman," Haytham whispers.

"No."

"I  _ am _ ."

"The point is," Shay says, "she was happy she finally got to tell you what she's been doing."

"And then I made a fool of myself," Haytham says.

"Er…" Shay hesitates. "Yes. That was… you did rather put on a show."

"Do the others know what's wrong with me?" Haytham asks.

"Most of them know you're bleeding, yes."

Haytham grunts. He's not sure if he's relieved to have an excuse for his behavior, or ashamed that everyone knows how mad he is.

"I told Grace… I said awful things about templars on the day I found out she wants to be a templar. She must have thought I was angry with  _ her _ , specifically…"

"She knows about the bleeding effect."

"She was crying," Haytham says flatly. "She was crying and I didn't even care, I was too busy thinking up ways to mock the order."

Shay frowns and says nothing. He doesn't leave, but he doesn't seem to have anything else to say.

-//-

When Grace gets home that night, it's late. She was supposed to have a shift watching her dad earlier in the evening, but… she couldn't make herself go home to do it. She's just hit a wall, she needs a  _ break _ . Mark's good for that—he's the closest to her in age of all the new templar initiates, and Grace still hasn't gotten over the novelty of having a friend she won't have to abandon the next time Abstergo finds them. And his family is amazingly, refreshingly normal—his mom's an accountant, his dad's a nurse, and neither of them ever forgets their own name.

They don't know what the templars really are, of course. Maybe they wouldn't be so friendly with Grace if they did. But they make it easy to spend the evening pretending to be normal, and right now Grace feels anything but.

At around ten, Mark's dad drives her to a vacant house Grace gives him as her address. She pretends to head for the door, then walks the last three blocks home when he's driven off. Her dad had taught her that trick when she started school, back when he was completely sane.

It's quiet in the safehouse. With so many people there, it's a safe bet  _ someone _ is still awake, but they're keeping quiet, and the whole house seems perfectly still. Grace slips inside, locks the door behind her, and is headed for her room when she hears her dad call her name. She freezes. Puts up her walls, the ones she's been carefully learned to build while her dad's been bleeding. Only then does she turn around.

Her dad's sitting at the kitchen table, almost invisible in the dark. Grace checks in eagle vision, in case she's missing someone else, but no. He's alone. "Isn't Connor supposed to be with you?" she asks. "It's his turn, isn't it? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," her dad says. He sounds exhausted and miserable—he sounds like  _ everything  _ is wrong. "Connor is just upstairs. I asked him to give us a few minutes of privacy when I saw you coming up the driveway."

"Were you waiting for me?"

He nods, and gestures to the chair next to him. Grace slips into it, trying to hide her reluctance. It's been a long day, and right now she just wants to go to sleep.

"I'm sorry," her dad says.

"It's okay. You were bleeding."

"It's not fine," he says firmly. "I appreciate your understanding, but I did hurt you. I hate that I did that, and I'm sorry."

Grace's eyes are wet again. She prays it's too dark for her dad to notice.

"Well then I forgive you," she says.

"I want you to know that… despite the things I said earlier, I am proud beyond belief that you have decided to become a templar. I love you more than I can say, and I am so glad you've chosen to become a templar. I'm just… I'm sorry that I didn't even know until today. And I'm sorry for all those things I said."

Grace nods.

"But this is me," he says. "This is your father, completely and one hundred percent himself, telling you that he's proud."

"Thank you," Grace whispers.

"And… I want you to have something."

"What?"

He holds out his hand, palm up, and Grace frowns at the ring there. It's large, a man's ring, with the templar cross stamped across it. Even in the dim light, she can see the little imperfections on it—Grace knows it's because  _ this  _ ring, unlike the rings worn by modern templars, had been made by hand, by a blacksmith from three hundred years ago. She frowns.

"That's your ring."

"Yes," her dad says.

"You're… giving it to me?"

"Just for a while," he says quietly. "Right now…" He hesitates. "Please don't argue with me, Grace, but right now I am not worthy of wearing that ring."

"Well then neither am I," Grace says. "I'm not even a full templar yet, I'm not supposed to have a ring for years."

"Don't wear it, then," he says. "It wouldn't fit you anyway. Just… hold onto it for me." He slips the ring into her hand, and closes her fingers around it. "When I'm well again," he says. "When I am myself again, you can give the ring back to me. Alright?"

"Alright," Grace says. She stands abruptly and throws her arms around him, crying freely now. For maybe thirty seconds, he holds her close. And then he starts to pull back, stiffening. Grace gives him a last kiss on the cheek (he flinches) and heads off to bed. Connor is sitting on the stairs, patiently waiting, and Grace waves halfheartedly at him.

"Dad's bleeding his younger self," she informs him.

Connor sighs. "Thank you for the warning," he says.

Grace nods. "Goodnight," she says, and heads up. Three steps up, Connor calls her back.

"I don't know exactly what the templars were doing today, but Shay says you're doing well." He gives her a quick, slightly stiff hug. "So congratulations."

"An assassin congratulating a templar?" Grace asks.

"I'm not alienating another family member because they happen to be a templar," Connor says firmly. "I know you're a good person, and so I'm happy you're doing well."

Grace actually smiles a little, and Connor smiles back, before she heads upstairs and he goes back to their father. Grace can still hear him snapping at Connor as she leaves the two of them behind.

Before slipping into bed, Grace digs through the little box she, Geraldine, and Elena use for their jewelry. They don't have much between the three of them (it doesn't exactly fit their lifestyle), but eventually Grace finds one of Geraldine's necklaces with a sturdy chain, and slides off the locket that had been hanging there, then replaces it with her dad's ring. She's pretty sure her sister will understand.

When she tries the necklace on, the ring's heavy weight fits perfectly just above her heart.

She closes her eyes and tries to focus on that. She can hear her dad shouting at Connor from downstairs—Connor's trying to convince him to go to bed, and Dad's insisting that he'll never sleep in a house as infested by assassins as this one. It could be worse, Grace thinks dully. He might have been shouting at Papa about not being able to sleep in a house with templars.

"Grace," Geraldine calls sleepily from the bottom bunk of their shared bunk bed. Elena gets her own, because she's the oldest, but there's not enough space here for all three of them to have their own bed. "Why are you just standing there?"

"Just thinking," Grace says. "It's been a long day."

"I am a templar grandmaster," Dad shouts at Connor, even louder than before. "I do not need to be babysat by my ungrateful excuse for a son."

"Just come to bed," Connor pleads, more quietly. "I'm sure Shay and Aveline are missing you…"

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Dad demands. "It's bad enough I can't convince Shay to stop bedding an assassin, what makes you think I'd want to listen to them at it all night?"

Grace and Geraldine look at each other in the near darkness. Then Geraldine wriggles backward toward the wall, and Grace squeezes into the empty space next to her big sister. She curls one hand over her father's ring as Geraldine hugs her, and falls asleep like that—her hand around the ring, her sister's arms around her, her dad shouting at her brother.

It's not exactly the way she'd expected the day to end.


	23. Chapter 23

In a way, the lucid days are worse than the days when he has no idea who he is. The worst part of bleeding is _knowing_ that it’s happening, trying to piece the shreds of himself together and finding that parts are missing. Parts of him have been _replaced_.

Today he knows he’s Haytham. But his father’s memories, the emotions attached to them...

He knows they aren’t his. And yet that knowledge doesn’t rob them of their power or their pain.

He and his father have been avoiding each other of late; there’s no ill feeling between them, exactly, but it’s difficult for them to be together. But Edward is in the kitchen, and Haytham is determined to make himself a cup of tea. He tries to do as much for himself as he can, particularly now that he’s allowed moments unsupervised. He certainly isn’t planning to cower outside the room until his father leaves it.

Haytham walks briskly into the kitchen. He casts a brief, distrustful glance at the electric kettle before digging the traditional one out of the cupboard. He isn’t _opposed_ to electricity, but he does prefer to perform some tasks in the ways familiar from his own time.

An uncomfortable admission to make when Desmond had first brought an electric kettle into the safehouse, as a present to Haytham. Fortunately, Shaun had descended upon it almost immediately. “ _Finally! Can you believe how long we’ve been living like cavemen?_ ”

“Good morning to you, too.”

It’s only when he hears the voice that Haytham registers he’s avoiding looking at his father. He turns and meets Edward’s eyes. They stand for a moment in silence.

“So who are you today?” Edward asks, warily.

“Myself, as far as I can tell.”

“You’re not going to say ‘and so are you’ again, are you?”

Haytham shakes his head and sets the kettle on the stove. “Myself. Haytham Kenway. Living through a second life that has become rather fraught, although I can’t say my first was devoid of obstacles.”

Edward nods, looking relieved. His reaction is a relief to Haytham as well; it’s a confirmation that he’s right, that he _does_ know who he is. He was fairly certain, it’s true, but the reassurance is welcome. “So your head’s clear?”

A truthful answer would show weakness, and his instincts cry out against it. But by this point everyone he knows has seen him in a humiliatingly weak state. “Not clear, exactly. Manageable.”

“I’m still in there,” Edward says, quietly. “Messing things up.”

“Not your fault.”

“I’d hoped I wasn’t there on the good days.”

“Your life is a part of me now,” Haytham says. “I suppose I’ll have to learn to manage. If it’s any consolation, I enjoy bleeding you more than I enjoy bleeding my past self.”

Edward leans back against the countertop. “So. Days like this, how does the bleeding...?” He gestures vaguely.

Haytham waits for a moment, before it becomes clear that Edward isn’t going to finish his sentence. “Manifest itself?”

Edward nods. “I mean, you seem all right.”

In a way, it’s refreshing to be asked questions. Most of the safehouse’s residents skirt uncomfortably around the subject, even though Haytham can tell they want to know more. It isn’t something he particularly likes to think about, but it’s something he’ll be thinking about whether he’s asked or not.

He has to think for a moment before he speaks, if he wants his voice to be his. There’s an ache in his stomach, a hunger for the ocean; he was once glad of the quick modes of travel in the twenty-first century, having always seen ships as nothing but a means of moving between two points, and now he misses spending weeks at sea. And...

“I can’t stop thinking of Kidd,” Haytham says. He doesn’t mean to say it, and the person he _should_ be would have kept it to himself. But he is no longer only Haytham Kenway; he is also his father, and staying silent has never been one of his father’s skills.

Edward freezes. “Thinking of her how?”

Haytham shifts on his feet. “As you did.”

As he still does, perhaps. Haytham finds it hard to imagine these feelings fading. His love for Ziio still lingers, after all these decades, and now she must share space in his heart with a woman he never met as himself.

“I never kissed her,” Haytham says, quietly. “I have that... that memory of the night you had with her, but I never kissed her as myself.”

Edward looks deeply uncomfortable. “I was glad of it. Even before I knew you were my son.”

“I know. I remember.” Strange, to feel regret and relief from different sides of the same memory. “I can’t stop replaying them in my mind, all those times she kissed other visitors in your skin.” Stranger to live through those memories in the Animus. Edward’s DNA remembers his body’s experiences, even if Edward himself wasn’t in his body at the time. Haytham has lived through so many kisses with Kidd, each time feeling like a different person, never as himself. “If I’d asked her, she would have been willing.”

“No doubt,” Edward says. Even with Haytham’s unusual insight into his father’s mind, it’s hard to tell whether he’s speaking with resentment or fondness. “But it wouldn’t have meant to you what it would now.”

“I’d at least have the memory of it,” Haytham says, and then he sighs. “And it would be a torment. I know.”

There’s a moment’s silence.

“There’s no one to replace Kidd,” Edward says at last. “But the ocean’s still with us.”

Haytham looks up at him. “How did you...?”

“If you love her, I’ll wager you love the ocean,” Edward says. He shrugs and smiles a little. “They’re close enough to the same thing. We should spend some time on the waves.”

Haytham stares. It’s like fingers clutching at his heart, the ache to say yes, the knowledge that it would be a bad idea. It’s been a long, painful fight to reach days like this. He can’t imagine that being on a ship would make him bleed _less_.

But he is no longer only himself, and his father has never been known for good decisions.


	24. Chapter 24

It's been a good day. It's been a _very_ good day, actually, the first in what seems like forever. Haytham's been himself all day, from his breakfast of sardines with mustard sauce and toast with cherry preserves, to his heated political discussion with Connor after dinner. He's played Sorry with Grace and James, he's given Desmond a typically stiff Haytham hug, he's rolled his eyes at his father's antics, he's showered and shaved all by himself and even worked out in the tiny gym/obstacle course. He's been bored, true, but in a Haytham way, asking Shay detailed questions about current Templar plans and practically begging to go to the next meeting. It's clear that staying at home and recovering is giving him cabin fever.

It's all been so wonderful, almost like having Haytham back to his usual self, that when Shay is finished brushing his teeth that night and Haytham reaches in for a kiss, Shay is more than happy to give it to him, delighted when Haytham backs him up to the wall and slides his hands down into Shay's pajama pants, still kissing him deeply. It's a bit more forward than Haytham usually is, but it _has_ been a long time for him. A very long time.

Still kissing, they make their way to the bedroom, where Haytham practically pushes Shay onto the bed, kissing and nipping his neck and shoulder as they tear each other's pajamas off. Shay sighs with longing at the sight of Haytham's body, still firmly defined despite his age--roughly mid-forties of this second life they've been given--and, Shay thinks, damn near perfect.

Everything proceeds nicely from that point on, and Shay is thoroughly enjoying the absolutely _filthy_ things Haytham is whispering in his ear, which he's never done before but which he _definitely_ has to do from now on, when Haytham falls silent and still, and Shay feels his stomach drop.

"What's this?" Haytham asks, and Shay, hearing the Welsh accent, scrambles out from under him and wraps himself in a blanket. "Be careful, you could have broken it!" Haytham complains.

"Just, just forget it," Shay says quickly, hugging the blanket around himself. It's not fair, it's not _fair_ , he was doing so _well_ and they were making _love_ , they haven't done that in _months_ , and then the stupid Bleeding Effect had to kick in and ruin it.

"I can't forget suddenly finding myself fuckin' another man!" A horribly un-Haytham-like grin spreads across Haytham's face, and Edward's voice is strange from his mouth. "It wasn't so bad, come to think of it. But you, Shay, you never struck me as the type. What does Aveline say?"

Shay looks fixedly at a corner of the room. There's a cobweb full of dust; he'll have to get a broom and get rid of it. "Aveline--"

Aveline comes in the room, in her bathrobe and the special towel for drying her hair quickly, and looks around the bed. She takes in Haytham kneeling, Shay curled up under the blanket, the open bottle of lubricant on the bedside table, and her carefully laid out lingerie thrown carelessly on the floor. "Haytham? Is everything all right?"

"Why does everyone keep calling me that?" Haytham whines. "You know my name is Edward." He looks Aveline up and down. "You know, I may have been buggering Shay just now--" Shay turns bright red and tries to say something, but it just comes out as a squeak. "--but I certainly wouldn't mind having you as well. What do you say, then?"

"Edward Kenway will never get anywhere with me," Aveline says quietly. "But Haytham Kenway is welcome in my bed any day." She smiles and sits on the bed, scooting over to Shay to give him a tender kiss.

"But Hat Man's not--" Haytham interrupts himself with a grimace, then his eyes flick to Shay, huddled in Aveline's embrace. "...I was doing it again, wasn't I?" His normal accent has reasserted itself, and his voice is full of quiet shame. He crumples in on himself, curling up at the foot of the bed and shaking. "Did I say anything awful this time?"

"Only moderately so," Aveline assures him. Shay mutters a half-hearted agreement.

"It's too much," Haytham mumbles, trying not to look too obviously like he's wiping his eyes on his naked knees. "I'm...god, Shay, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry I'm so...how could I?"

"It's all right, sir," Shay whispers, pressing closer to Aveline, who kisses him on the forehead. He takes a deep breath, sits up, and holds out his arms. "Come here, Haytham. Just...just let me hold you." And when Haytham comes into his arms, Shay hugs him tightly, hoping that the feel of his embrace will anchor Haytham to the here and now.


	25. Chapter 25

Elena is horrified when she goes into the animus to see Owen. It's been three months since her grandpa came back from Abstergo, broken and bleeding and definitely not himself, and somehow in that time, Owen's turned into something no one really wants to talk about. Maybe everyone thinks he just didn't try hard enough to help Grandpa. Maybe he's just the most convenient person to blame. Either way, it's not fair. Elena knows he tries as hard as he can with every single animus subject that comes to him. He would have done everything he possibly can to help in this case, too.

So she climbs into an animus to go see him.

It feels uncomfortably similar to the  _ first  _ time she'd gotten into an animus, waiting until she's alone and unobserved before climbing into the chair. At least this time she knows better than to go diving into someone else's memories, so this time she's not going to start bleeding.

She just wants to talk to Owen. That's it. She just wants to make sure he's okay.

He's not.

The first thing Elena sees when she gets in, the first thing that really horrifies her, is the way the island has changed. The place has always been tied to Owen himself, to his sense of who he is and what he's trying to do. When Elena had been here, and Owen had been obsessed with making people's lives  _ better _ , the island had been calm, and peaceful. A sort of digital paradise, tailor made for people that just can't stop bleeding.

It's different now. Instead of one huge, sprawling landmass full of forests to explore and rolling hills to climb, it's been broken up into a series of islands (Elena reaches for long forgotten geography lessons, and decides the right word is probably archipelago). Each island is about the size of Elena's bedroom, each one looks comfortable enough, and each one is home to exactly one guest.

Elena wades through the low water (it stings a bit—the water isn't  _ quite  _ a part of animus island the way the land itself is, and Elena can't shake the feeling that she's not supposed to be going through the water like this), and soon enough she reaches the nearest island. There's a person there (Elena can't tell anything about them, she can't tell if they're a man or a woman, an adult or a child), lying flat on their back with their head turned sideways to look at her as she comes close.

"What are you doing here?" they ask, almost accusingly. "You don't look crazy."

"I used to be," Elena says, crouching down and trying to look as kind as possible. "I was here for a long time."

"Why would you come  _ back _ ?" they ask, curling up miserably. "I hate it here, I want to go home!"

"I need to talk to someone," Elena says. "Owen—do you know where he is?"

"I don't know an Owen," they mutter. "I'm too scared to go to the other islands. The water hurts."

"No," Elena says. "Owen isn't, um—he's not crazy anymore like everyone else here. He's the one that comes to help you feel better."

"Haven't seen anyone," they say.

Elena backs up, frowning, and then suddenly she's distracted by the occupant of the neighboring island. She doesn't know his name, because neither does he, but he'd been on animus island when Elena was there—he's one of the really sad cases that no one really thinks will ever get better.

"Owen doesn't come to see us anymore," he reports, when his jumping and waving have gotten Elena's attention. He's just close enough that she can hear him when he shouts, but it's difficult and it obviously bothers the person Elena is sharing an islet with.

"Why not?" she calls back.

"Dunno," he says. "But he used to be here all the time so he could help us, and now he's never here at all."

That's not okay. That's really, really worrying. Elena cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, "Owen!  _ Owen!" _

"Ow," the person next to her complains, rolling onto their stomach and putting their hands over their ears. "You don't have to be so  _ loud _ ."

"Owen!" Elena shouts again.

And suddenly he's standing in front of her, looking hazy and disjointed and not at all like he used to. Elena remembers that he always used to look like the most real person in the place, but now he looks as screwed up as everyone else.

"Owen?" Elena asks, just to make sure.

"What are  _ you  _ doing here?" Owen asks, without looking up. He's shorter than she is now, Elena can't help noticing. He'd always been taller than her, but now he's shrunken somehow, so Elena has to look down an inch or two just to meet his eyes.

"I came to talk to you," Elena says.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Owen says at once. "I know everyone was counting on me, but it's not my fault that he started bleeding so badly. Sometimes that just  _ happens _ , I can't do anything to stop the bleeding effect, I can only try to make it better, and I didn't have enough time with him to make a difference—"

"Owen," Elena says. She tries to grab him by the shoulder to force him to just stop talking, but her hands pass right through him, like he's a ghost.

"He's your grandfather," Owen says miserably. "Isn't he? I took part of your family away from you."

"Abstergo took him away," Elena says. " _ You _ did everything you could for him."

"I didn't do enough," Owen says in a nearly inaudible voice.

"So why aren't you out here?" Elena asks. "Helping your kids? You always said that makes you feel better."

"I don't deserve to feel better."

Elena resists the urge to roll her eyes, because Owen is still one of her favorite people, and she doesn't want to hurt him anymore than he's already hurting. Instead, she crouches over the unknown person that's staying on this island. "Hey," she says, keeping her voice soft. "This is Owen. He can help you remember who you are, and make you well again so you can go home."

"Re—really?"

Elena nods, and in the next second they've pushed past her to hug Owen with absolute desperation. "Hey—" he tries to protest.

"You're going to help me!" they say, ignoring Owen completely. "You're going to make me better!"

"I can't do that anymore," Owen tries to argue.

"Of course you can," Elena says. "You're the only one that can."

"But I'm not making anything worse like this," Owen argues. "Everyone is just… on their own, they don't have to be around anything that's going to make them worse. Like me."

"This can't all just be because of Grandpa," Elena says.

"Of course it is," Owen says. "Everyone was counting on me to keep him from getting sick, and I couldn't do it. If I couldn't help him, how would I be able to help anyone else?"

"Don't be silly," Elena says, in her most matter of fact, grown up voice. "You've always had some people you couldn't help. But there are so many more people that you  _ have  _ helped."

"Hey!" calls the guy from the island next door. " _ Hey!" _

"What?" Elena shouts.

"I still don't know who I am," he says cheerfully. "I've been here for years, and I have no idea what my name is. But that doesn't mean you haven't helped me, Owen. I don't have to be sane to know that you're helping us."

"You're going to make us better," the new kid adds, still clinging to Owen's leg.

"Come on, Owen," Elena says. "You can help so many people, why  _ wouldn't  _ you?"

"I guess," Owen says, looking marginally more happy.

And by the time he's started shifting the island around, so people can get to one another, by the time the island has started to look like the happy place in Elena's memories, Owen is smiling widely again.

“Is...is everyone mad at me?” he asks, as the island is finally starting to come together again. “And is Haytham okay?”

Elena thinks about telling him the truth. That everyone seems to be blaming him, and that her grandpa still seems to be getting worse, some days. “Nobody blames you,” she says instead. “And Grandpa’s getting better all the time.”

He seems to relax fully then, and well… Maybe Elena feels terrible when she hugs him goodbye and logs out, but at least Owen is happy again. 


	26. Chapter 26

Haytham wakes, unsure of where he is or the person-- _people_ \--he's in bed with. Waking up naked is not exactly one of his favorite pastimes, nor something he makes a habit of doing. Neither is _cuddling_ , and yet, here he is, in another man's arms, holding a woman in his own. 

He sits up, trying to determine the identity of his apparent bedmates. The man behind him is wearing nothing but a Templar ring and a wedding ring, and as Haytham looks down at him he recognizes his visitor Shay. He wonders if he'll ever see the man clothed, since this makes the third time he's seen absolutely all of him, far more than Haytham actually wants to see. And yet, the Templar ring is a puzzle; at their last meeting, Shay had been a headstrong, naked young Assassin. Now, apparently, he's a cuddly, naked, middle-aged Templar, and Haytham is happy about exactly one of those things. 

While Shay’s identity may explain what Haytham is doing in his bed--he'd obviously visited in his sleep and been cuddled by an equally sleepy Shay--it does nothing to help Haytham understand how he himself got to be naked. Had he fallen asleep in the bath and then visited? No, the sheets are (reassuringly) dry. He turns to the woman, looking for answers. 

She's lovely, he realizes, even asleep like this, snoring softly and drooling slightly, with her curly hair tangled up on one side of her head. Maybe she's Shay’s mystery wife who bound his wrists with a Templar sash that one time. But how can that be, when Haytham was holding her? Surely she can't see visitors. She looks familiar, though, someone he thinks he ought to know, and it puzzles him until he places her. 

She's the last Assassin visitor, he realizes, the one he doesn't know yet, the one who's always trying to kill him and vice versa. He can't imagine her bedding a Templar, much less marrying one, unless it's a ruse to kill him. Which means either that she, too, visited in her sleep, or else Shay the surprise Templar is in grave danger. If Haytham tries to rouse him, he runs the risk of waking her, which could prove deadly for Shay. But this is an unparalleled opportunity to strike against the Assassins, and to ensure his own future safety and Shay's as well. 

He's utterly naked, without even his hidden blades, and unable to get to his weapons without disturbing her. It'll have to be bare hands, he decides. He reaches for her neck, then stops. 

Something in him is sickened by the thought of killing an unarmed, sleeping woman. And something else inside is screaming in horror, telling him this is the last thing he should ever do. 

But she is an Assassin, and he is a Templar. What else can there be between them but ceaseless war? The fact that she is his visitor, the tinge of fondness he feels, the inexplicably matching wedding rings on her hand and Shay's, none of this can matter when the matter is Assassins and Templars. But it's enough to stay his hand. 

After all, that kind of thinking is what will lead to his death at his son's hand, isn't it? (How does he know how he'll die?) (How does he know he'll have a son?) He reaches up to his neck absently, feeling the familiar scars of--

\--of his death, and the memory crushes him, and all the other memories surge through him, everything before his death ( _and not long before his death, Shay’s broad back beneath him, and Aveline's legs around him_ ) and after, all at once, and he collapses under the weight of them. 

"Haytham?" He dimly hears Aveline's voice, and buries his face in the pillow ( _he's done this before, with Shay at his back, or Aveline with her slender hand giving him so much pleasure he has to muffle himself for fear of everyone in the safehouse hearing_ ) with shame as deep as any pleasure he's ever felt in bed with the two of them. 

How could he, how could he even _consider_ it? He's never even considered raising a hand to any lover he's ever had--he's killed men for beating their wives--and yet here he was, plotting how best to kill Aveline. Aveline, who loves and trusts him. Aveline, the mother of his daughter. The shame of it chokes him, he absolutely _loathes_ himself in this moment, and he scrambles from the bed, runs from the room.

The first place Haytham goes when he leaves Shay and Aveline's room (not _his_ room, he doesn't deserve to sleep there anymore) is his father's room. Maybe he's seeking comfort, but all he finds is Edward and Ezio together. _Together_. Haytham stares for a second, then slams the door and heads across the safehouse to Connor's room.

Connor's bed is high enough for Haytham to fit underneath with ease, unlike all the other beds in this house, which are low platform things right out of an Ikea catalog from ten years ago. (Haytham has a lot of experience furnishing safehouses after a decade and a half bouncing from one to the next, trying to squeeze over a dozen people into a house meant for six at most.)

He slips in among the storage boxes, hoping his son won't wake. He lies there, contorted around bins of Elena's artwork and Geraldine's dolls and Grace's legos, trying not to sob with misery. He can't go back to Shay and Aveline's bed, not now when he can't trust himself even to sleep.

He's not sure how much time goes by before Connor stirs, wakes, and leaves the room. But it's not long at all before he returns with Aveline, who sits down in front of the bed.

"Haytham," she says briskly, and he trembles. All he wants is to be held in her arms, but for her safety, it can never happen again. Not while he's still subject to the bleeding effect, and that looks like it'll ruin what's left of his second lifetime. "Haytham," she says again, with a calm that he doesn't want to shatter by telling her what happened.

"I think it best if we sleep apart from now on," Haytham says in his frostiest tone, hating the tremor that creeps in. He hears Connor's soft scoff, and can imagine his son rolling his eyes and wishing to be anywhere other than here.

"I disagree," Aveline says in measured tones. "Shay and I spent so long without you before and we're not willing to do that again."

"Well, it's better that way," Haytham insists. "Safer for you." His throat is thick with self-hatred. "I can't be trusted."

"I have never not _trusted_ you, Haytham."

"That isn't true. At first we plotted to kill each other outright."

Aveline sighs. "All right, we did. But that was long ago."

Haytham covers his eyes. "Not so long ago for me." 

Aveline reaches in and gently pulls one of his hands away. "You woke up bleeding?"

Haytham nods, and can barely get the words out past the tightness in his throat. "Yes, and I...I thought you an enemy, and I wanted to--you see why I can't be trusted."

Aveline says simply, "Even bleeding, you didn't attack me."

"But next time," Haytham persists. "Next time I might do something horrible. I'd be putting your life on the line and depending on myself to keep it safe, and _I_ don't even trust myself."

"Well, I do. I have faith in you, Haytham. You've come this far. Come back to bed."

Connor speaks up. "Please, Father. You ought to be with them."

Haytham shakes his head angrily. "No, I ought to be...to be tied up at night so I can't hurt anyone in their sleep." It's galling and shameful to think of, but he would feel so much better if he was restrained and everyone was safe from him.

Aveline smiles. "I promise you, Haytham, if you're tied up at night, it'll be in bed, and I'm going to be all over you, or Shay is, and none of us will be asleep."

Connor makes a noise like some kind of wounded animal. " _Aveline_. I did not need to hear that."

"That's the only circumstance in which he should be tied up," she retorts, her voice steely. "If I wanted him restrained, that would be as good as saying I didn't trust him. But I do. He had every reason to hurt me, and he didn't. That means that he's still _my_ Haytham, under the bleeding effect. And my Haytham would never hurt me."

Connor shifts uncomfortably. "I understand. And I am glad that he did not hurt you, that he still has so much control over himself. But I think I will leave the room if you are going to tell my father how you would like to tie him up and make love to him that way."

Haytham is glad that neither can see the deep blush he feels burning his cheeks. "Thank you, son."

Aveline begins to move the boxes and bins out from under the bed, and Connor helps her. She reaches in to take Haytham's hand and tugs gently. "Time for bed, my love. And if you really want to be tied up, I'm sure we can--" and she enumerates a number of ideas that make his face turn beet red. Connor covers his ears and stares into a corner until Aveline coaxes Haytham out from under the bed and seizes his hand, pulling him towards the bedroom with calm determination.


	27. Chapter 27

It's been a while since Haytham visited. Or since he remembers visiting, anyway—there have been a couple awkward visits to Adewale that Haytham has absolutely no memory of, but had each triggered bleeding sessions of Edward that had lasted for days. But right now, for whatever reason (possibly just because it's about time that  _ something  _ went right), Haytham isn't really visiting much.

But today he finds himself suddenly in Paris, and a jolt of panic floods through him. He shouldn't be here, he  _ really  _ shouldn't. As much as he hates to admit it, he needs to be looked after right now. He can't be trusted alone, he can't  _ function  _ alone.

"You look awful," Arno says, with obvious surprise. He's in the middle of writing a letter, it looks like, but he stops and puts it aside when he sees what a mess Haytham is at the moment (unshaven, unwashed—he's past the point where he  _ can't  _ keep himself clean, it's just that sometimes he'll bleed little, annoying traits from Edward, and right now he seems to have picked up a certain loathing for baths).

"I'm bleeding," Haytham grumbles, slouching down in an empty chair.

"Where?" Arno asks. "Do you need bandages, or—"

"No," Haytham assures him. "I mean, I'm bleeding in the head."

Arno looks even more alarmed. "People  _ die  _ when their brains start bleeding," he points out. "Haytham, are you—"

"Not like that," Haytham says. "Christ, Arno, I'm not dying."

"You're definitely acting funny," Arno says. He's still eyeing Haytham like he expects him to spontaneously implode. Haytham grimaces and makes a Herculean effort, trying to pull himself together. He sits up straight, tries to reign in the bits of his father that keep creeping into his dialogue.

"I'm not…well," he admits. The admission grates against his pride. "I don't always know who I am anymore, and even when I do, I can't always act like myself."

"Why not?" Arno asks.

Haytham sighs. "I don't really want to explain," he says. "I'm sorry, but it's not particularly pleasant to talk about. You'll see it yourself eventually."

"Will I?"

"Oh sure," Haytham says. "When you die and come to the future."

He knows, as soon as he says it, that he absolutely should not have. But he just—he can't stop himself. Apparently one of the traits he's bleeding from his father at the moment is the physical inability to stop himself from spouting spoilers.

"So that's going to work?" Arno asks doubtfully. "Because I have to say it doesn't sound likely."

Haytham opens his mouth to say something noncommittal and vague. "Of course it works," his traitorous mouth announces. "I saw you come back."

"Yea?"

"Yes," Haytham says. "I saw you come back—you and Jacob started kissing, and—"

"Right," Arno says, rolling his eyes. A moment ago he'd seen legitimately interested in Haytham unwillingly revealing his entire future. Now he looks like Haytham's just said something ridiculous. "What is this supposed to be, a bad joke? Have you been talking to Jacob?"

"Occasionally," Haytham says. "The two of you are in the room down the hall from me.”

"Never going to happen," Arno says promptly. "Listen, if you're just making this up because you're going mad, or… whatever it is you were telling me about earlier, then I'm sorry. But if Jacob put you up to this as some kind of shitty practical joke, then you can tell him that we had an agreement. He has to stop doing things like this, because… he's never going to be Elise."

"I should hope not," Haytham says. "He's Jacob. And you never married Elise."

"And I'll never marry Jacob," Arno says. His face has gone red from either embarrassment or anger, and he refuses to speak with Haytham for the rest of the visit. Haytham tries to console himself with the realization that at least Arno will never believe any of the spoilers Haytham hadn't been able to  _ stop  _ himself from giving. Frankly, it doesn't help very much.

The visit eventually ends, and Haytham goes back to the twenty first century with every intention of treating his father to as lengthy and pointed amount of the silent treatment as he manage. This resolution only lasts about ten minutes before Haytham starts bleeding his younger self, and completely forgets everything that's just happened. By the time he is himself again, and remembers, he's done half a dozen more terrible and embarrassing things. It's not even worth being annoyed with Edward, at that point.


	28. Chapter 28

Haytham has been driving again for a month, now. Just short trips to the supermarket or whatever. He always has a minder in the passenger seat; today, as usual, it's Connor. Haytham tries to pretend that it's just to make him a better driver.

Connor isn't much for idle chatting, but he's noticed that his father relaxes if he talks. So he goes down the shopping list, discussing each item gravely. "...and the store brand organic bread is two dollars this week, so I think we should buy ten of them."

"What if they don't have ten?" Haytham asks, his foot pushing the accelerator just a little too much.

"Then we should buy extra pasta and have macaroni and cheese for lunches. Father, the speed limit is 25."

"I know, I know," Haytham grumbles, lightening the pressure incrementally. The van jolts and stalls, and Haytham scowls. Then something _shifts_ and he finds himself cursing like--

Well. Like a sailor, obviously.

"Father," Connor says, reaching over to take Haytham by the wrist, "are you bleeding?"

"I bloody well am and you know it!" Haytham snaps, then takes a deep breath. "I can handle it, son. Just give me a minute." He closes his eyes and takes another breath. The car behind him honks its horn and Haytham opens his eyes with a scowl. "Fine then, I'll have to do this aloud. Connor. Do you remember playing Candy Land with Grace?"

"We played it many times," Connor says, watching the car behind them swerve into the left lane and pass them, middle fingers extended.

"She was sitting in my lap and I was helping her play with you and Desmond. She got the card that sends you almost back to the start, and almost started crying." Haytham is practically sucking in air, eyes unfocused. "Desmond and I tried to soothe her, and you took the cards while she wasn't watching and stacked the deck so she'd go ahead to the end."

Connor frowns. "It broke my heart to see how crushed she was."

Haytham nods, exhaling carefully. "And I loved you for it, even though I--oh, go bugger yourself, knob-end!" he curses at another honking car. "Even though I lectured you afterwards." He looks at Connor and smiles crookedly, forehead creased with his internal struggle.

Connor half-smiles back. "You were right, though, when you said she had to learn to deal with disappointment."

Haytham nods. "But you are her brother, and that's different." He inhales slowly, and presses the ignition switch. The van grinds back to life, and he eases it back into the flow of traffic.

"Father?" Connor asks, worried. "Are you sure...?"

"I know who I am, son," Haytham almost whispers, the strain evident in his voice. "I'm Haytham. Not Edward." He turns into the parking lot and finds a space. Only then does he relax, sighing. "That was the easy part."

Connor stares incredulously. "That? How is that easy?"

Haytham unbuckles himself. "Connor, how many supermarkets is my father allowed in?"

"None of them," Connor answers. "...I see what you mean."

"Well," Haytham sighs, "I'm about to get a lot of practice warding off the Bleeding Effect."


	29. Chapter 29

Everyone says Grandpa is better now. He's himself again, whatever that means. James doesn't know his grandpa very well—he's not supposed to talk to Grandpa at all unless a grown up is with him. And there are lots of rules James doesn't like, he'll happily hide his vegetables in his napkin at dinner or sneak a flashlight and a comic book into bed. But he follows the rule about not talking to Grandpa, because Grandpa scares him.   
  
Today, Grandpa finds James when he's upstairs playing with Marco. At first, James thinks he's going to be yelled at for playing with Grandpa’s cat (even though he's pretty sure Marco doesn't know he's Grandpa’s cat—Marco seems to think that everyone at the safe house is his person, instead of the other way around). But Grandpa just watches him for a long time.   
  
“Do you remember when we used to play together?” Grandpa asks at last.   
  
James shrugs with one shoulder and shakes his head. He looks at Marco and not at Grandpa. He sort of remembers that he didn't used to be scared of Grandpa, but it's a far away kind of memory.  
  
“We did,” Grandpa says.  
  
“You probably remembered it wrong again,” James informs him. Grandpa is always forgetting who James is. “You're thinking about some other kid, you don't play with me.”  
  
“How old are you now?” Grandpa asks.   
  
“Seven.”  
  
“You were five,” he says. “When I was captured. No wonder you don't remember.”  
  
“I'm good at remembering,” James argues. “Better than you.”  
  
But then again five was a long time ago, practically a baby. Even if Grandpa did used to play with James, how is James supposed to remember that?  
  
“I'm sorry,” Grandpa says, and he actually _sounds_ sorry so James risks looking at him. “I really wanted to be a good grandfather, and I promise I love you. I…”  
  
But then his whole face twists into a smile, and he goes whistling into one of the bedrooms. James listens hard and thinks he recognizes one of the songs Edward and Adewale like to sing about boats.   
  
At least he didn't shout this time. Grandpa’s always been weird and scary, as long as James can really remember. So he just picks up Marco and moves back downstairs to tell someone.  
  
“Crazy Grandpa is upstairs,” he tells Elena, when he finds her.   
  
“Oh no,” Elena says. “Are you sure, James? He hasn't bled in more than a month, are you sure? Really sure?”  
  
She sounds hopeful, but James shakes his head yes. “He's cuckoo for cocoa puffs,” he says, then crosses his eyes and makes a funny face like the bird in the commercials. But Elena doesn't laugh, she just gives him a very disappointed big sister look and runs upstairs after Grandpa.  James hears them talking for a little bit. And maybe he is getting better, because after only a couple minutes, he comes back down and apologizes a lot to James.   
  
James just shrugs and tunes Grandpa out, because yea right. Grandpa is just gonna do it again, and Mommy says sorry only counts if you try to do better next time. Grandpa’s going to be crazy forever.  
  
Maybe Grandpa sees him not paying attention, because he bends down to James’s level. “Hey,” he says, real serious. “I'm getting better, James. And soon I'm going to be able to play with you again. I'll be a proper grandfather.”  
  
He looks so convinced that James can only nod numbly. But for a long time after, he keeps thinking about having a real Grandpa. It's one of those nice things that are better not to think about, because they're never gonna happen. But James thinks he would like a real, not crazy Grandpa. 


	30. Chapter 30

It's possible, Edward realizes dimly, that this has been arranged. He and Haytham have been left alone in the safe house, while everyone else goes off on completely unimportant errands. Which is silly, really, because it's not like Edward has been…

Alright, he's absolutely been avoiding Haytham. But what is he supposed to do, faced with a son who (until recently) was mixing himself up with Edward on a fairly regular basis? Edward hates seeing his son like that, an ugly, warped reflection of  _ him _ . He knows he'd been a terrible person, but seeing Haytham stuck in his head, the way he acts, the things he says, it makes it all so much more awful.

He'd been like that, once. He'd been a terrible, awful, self absorbed person. He'd spent half… more than half of his time drunk, and all of it making stupid comments that he thought sounded  _ clever  _ but really only showed how little he knew. And he knows that, sort of, but he really  _ knows  _ it now, because whenever Haytham starts bleeding him, he's just transformed into the awful, awful kind of person Edward used to be. Still is, maybe.

"I think they want us to talk," Haytham says, interrupting Edward's train of thought. He won't quite meet Edward's eyes.

"We don't have to," Edward says. "I understand if you don't want to talk to me after everything you've been through."

"You mean the bleeding," Haytham says. He's better these days, Edward knows. Well enough at least to know who he is most of the time.

"You were always a good man," Edward says, after a short pause. "When we first met, and you were this stranger I didn't know, I looked up to you. Did you know that?" He flinches, before Haytham can react. "Of course you did, you were in my head. Or maybe you didn't. I don't think I recognized it myself until recently, I'm not…  _ great  _ at understanding my own head. I just—you had this air of having everything figured out, like you knew everything, and normally that kind of person drove me crazy, but you weren't horrible about it like most people. You were kind to me."

Haytham is nodding. He already knows, of course.

"And then…" Edward finds tears suddenly welling up in his eyes, and he's choking on them because they just won't stay in. "Connor told me who you were and at first I was surprised, obviously, but then I was so  _ proud _ . I couldn't understand how any son of mine could turn out as well as you did." He shudders and shakes under the force of holding in his tears. "But now I know. Because I was gone for so much of your life,  _ that's  _ why you were able to grow into the man you a…were. And now that I'm in your head, now you're like me, you're…" He waves his hand, unwilling to say the words aloud and figuring that Haytham will understand anyway. Haytham is broken, he's hurt, and (when he's bleeding Edward) he's crude and crass and just a terrible, terrible person.

Edward rubs his hands over his eyes and makes a valiant effort to pretend he's not crying. Haytham politely pretends not to notice, and after a while, Edward is able to compose himself. Somewhat. He's still trembling, and he can taste tears on his lips, even if he's stopped crying outright.

"This isn't your fault," Haytham says, eventually. "Everyone keeps saying it's not my fault—and it's not yours, either. This is Abstergo, and the animus."

"But think—if I had been a good person, if I had been a good  _ man _ , you wouldn't have suffered the way you have been the past couple of years."

"Of course I would have," Haytham says, almost dismissively. "It doesn't matter if I'm bleeding the person you were or the person I was, it's losing who I am now that hurts. And…" he hesitates. "I can't say I'm proud of everything I've done when I thought I was you. I think I've kissed almost every visitor now—which is a bit surprising, really. I'm not bleeding Ezio."

Edward half laughs, surprising himself. "I just enjoy kissing," he says.

Haytham rolls his eyes—one of the many little tics he's picked up from Edward since his kidnapping. As always, Edward is torn between snapping at him to  _ stop  _ (because he hates seeing these little reminders that there is so much of him in his son's mind) and staying silent to keep from drawing attention to it. He stays quiet. "Yes," Haytham says drily. "I had noticed, actually. But my point is, I may not be proud of everything I've done, but I'm not proud of everything I've done while bleeding myself, either. It's the bleeding itself that is the problem, not the specifics of who I'm bleeding. Ask Desmond, or Clay, or Owen, or Elena. I'm sure any of them would tell you the same thing."

"But—"

Haytham hugs him. Aggressively. Edward opens his mouth to protest that this is wrong, because the Haytham  _ he  _ knows would never be so forward, this is an Edward-hug and Haytham should be doing stiff Haytham-hugs instead.

Except he needs the hug, and even if the hug comes from the part of Haytham that is  _ Edward _ , the sentiment is probably coming from the part of him that is  _ Haytham _ . He hugs back, with exactly equal aggressiveness, and they just hang onto one another for ages because what else are they supposed to do?


	31. Chapter 31

Mostly, he's okay these days. Mostly, Haytham knows who he is and where he is and when he is. Mostly, he can tell the difference between his thoughts and his father's—or his own, for that matter. The person he had been in his first life is so different from the man he is now, that Haytham can't think of the earlier Haytham as the same person.

There are still bad days. Gaps in his days when he'll wake up and know by the looks of people around him and the shame pooling in his gut that he's been bleeding. And there are other times when he'll just start doing something, because it seems natural and right, it seems like something he's always done. And then a moment later he'll realize it's an old habit of his father's, or something he hasn't done in decades, and for a moment he'll just feel out of place in his own skin, lost and wrong, before he can pull himself together and shake the moment off.

But mostly he's getting better. He's getting better. That's why he's here, finally back at templar meetings with Shay. And… true, Haytham isn't the one leading the meeting. Shay is in charge, as he has been during Haytham's long illness and recovery. Maybe, if… or when… if Haytham is completely better someday, he might take over again. Or maybe he won't, maybe he'll just let Shay continue to lead. He remembers (vaguely, through the hazy fog that covers most of his memories from when he first started bleeding) that Shay had really struggled to take over the order.

That's all in the past now, though. Shay has grown into an excellent leader, firm when he needs to be, but without sacrificing compassion. Haytham thinks back to Shay's initiation, hundreds of years ago now, when he'd noticed Gist's loyalty had shifted from the order itself to Shay specifically. Maybe he should have seen this coming, all the way back then.

He does tend to be a little more long winded than Haytham would have liked, however. Or more than Edward would have liked, maybe—there are some parts of his father that Haytham has had an extremely difficult time shaking. Edward's short attention span, for example.

They're in Florida at the moment. It's hot, and humid, and Shay has been talking for nearly half an hour about an Abstergo facility in Miami they want to take out. Haytham knows it's important work, but…

He's bored. He steps back from the table he and the other templars are gathered, and heads toward the hall. Shay raises his eyebrows at him, but Haytham shakes his head. 'Fine,' he mouths. He's fine. He just needs to stretch his legs and get some air.

Sure enough, when he returns fifteen minutes later, he's feeling much better. Shay is still talking, but now he's unrolled a schematic of the facility. He and the other three templars in the room are bent over the table, examining it closely. Haytham rolls his eyes. Yes, Shay has grown into a very good leader, but he can be a bit long winded. Haytham tries to listen for a while, but between his earlier inattention and then his break, he's missed too much. He has no idea what Shay is looking at now, and eventually he gives up trying to follow along. There's no way he'll be sent on this mission anyway, not when he's still prone to fits of the bleeding effect. He might jeopardize the whole mission if he goes along.

So he turns to other ways of amusing himself. The man closest to him is so absorbed in what Shay is pointing to on the schematic that he doesn't notice Haytham relieving him of his wallet. And neither does the woman next to him. Or the man on her other side. Or—

Shay catches Haytham's hand before he loses his own wallet, and squeezes gently. The slight pressure grounds Haytham, and he shakes his head to clear it. What is he…? Why—

"Alright then," Shay says. "We have a bit more to go over before we target the building, but I think that's enough for today. We can finish up next week."

The other three nod and break into conversation with one another, leaving Shay and Haytham with a bit of privacy. "I think your Edward's showing," Shay says.

Haytham glances down at the stolen wallets in his hands. "Sorry," he says. "It's just—when my father was accidentally made a templar, that one time… it was like this, it was exactly like this. A little group of templars gathered around a table, not paying any attention to m—"

"To him," Shay murmurs.

"To him," Haytham agrees. "But I mean—even the weather was the same, hot and humid, just like today…" He draws himself together. Drops the stolen money. "But I'm not him. I'm not my father."

"You're not," Shay agrees, pulling him closer.

Haytham kisses him. He'd never have been so eager before the bleeding effect. He'd very rarely made the first move, not like he does these days—maybe that's his father's influence as well, but Haytham can live with that, at least.

A few minutes later, the woman comes running back to admit (a bit sheepishly) that somehow she and her friends have all misplaced their wallets. Shay breaks away from Haytham just long enough to hand them back (and even manages a stern 'be more careful next time' that Haytham thinks might really be meant for him).

"I will be," Haytham says, when they're alone again. "I will be careful, Shay, I won't let that happen again."

"You're getting better," Shay says. "That's what matters."

Shay kisses Haytham again, and something stirs inside him. A bright spark, a sure, steady certainty that Shay Cormac loves him. It's something his father never felt, something he would never have wanted to feel. And it's something his past self would have given anything for, even if he never could have admitted it.

But Haytham feels it now, and revels in it. In knowing Shay loves him, in knowing Aveline is waiting for him at home, in knowing he has children that care for him. A whole family of visitors that had been there for him when he needed them the most. He knows them, and through them, in that moment, he knows himself.

"I am getting better," he agrees, as Shay holds him. "I am."


	32. Chapter 32

Owen is nervous all day, tense and on edge, waiting for Haytham to come. Elena had come by a week earlier, and explained that Haytham is doing much better these days, and that he wants to come and say thank you in person.

"Why does he want to thank me?" Owen had asked. "I didn't help him. I wish I had, but I couldn't—"

"You tried," Elena had tried to assure him. "You tried everything you could, I  _ know  _ you did."

But trying doesn't change the fact that nothing had been enough. Haytham is mad because Owen had failed. If he's getting better now, it's entirely due to his own hard work. It has nothing to do with anything Owen had tried.

Still, Elena had refused to listen, and so Owen has to live with the knowledge that Haytham is on his way to Animus Island. Well, not live, exactly. He's a dead man, after all. This knowledge, as ever, does not prove comforting, and Owen spends the rest of the time before Haytham's visit drowning in an absolute ocean of self blame.

And then the day arrives, and Owen is all set to throw himself at the other man and apologize, when Haytham hugs him.

"Thank you," he says. "I know who I am now, and that wouldn't be possible if not for you."

"I couldn't help you," Owen protests—but half heartedly. He's just noticed that Haytham hadn't arrived alone. There's a woman with him, a stranger, and she looks remarkably sane for someone in an animus. And more than that, she’s… Owen doesn’t think he’s ever seen her before, but there’s something in the shape of her face that makes him think of…

Something. But it’s no good. Whoever this woman reminds him of, Owen can’t  _ quite  _ remember. He catches himself trying to picture her younger (she’s old--at least seventy, maybe eighty), and he’s not quite sure why.

"You gave me the techniques I needed to really start pulling myself out of the bleeding effect," Haytham says. "I wish I could have recovered as well as Elena did when she was here with you, but that's just the way things work out sometimes. It's alright. I understand, I'm grateful for what you  _ did  _ do."

"Do you know who you are, then?" Owen asks.

"Haytham Kenway," Haytham says promptly. "And I know I just hugged—"

"You're  _ still  _ hugging me."

Haytham takes the cue and steps back. "I hugged you," he says again. "Because I'm still working on recovery. I am aware that I am bleeding when I do things like that, but—I'm working on it."

"Good," Owen says. He glances at the woman, and she seems to take this as her cue to step forward.

"Kyle," she says.

"What?" Owen asks.

"I did some research into early animus subjects," Haytham says. His wide, self satisfied grin is all Edward, but there's something in his eyes that is very definitely Haytham. "Including Subject One."

"Me?"

"Yes. And I found… quite a lot of useful information. Including your full name, and from there, your family."

"My…?"

"This is your sister," Haytham says. "V—"

"Vicky," Owen blurts, before Haytham can finish. The woman… Vicky… beams at him. He doesn't know where the name came from, it just popped into his head.

"See?" she says, stepping forward. Owen fights not to edge backward, this is  _ so  _ much more nerve-wracking than a visit from Haytham. "They told me you didn't remember me, but you know who I am."

"I don't," Owen says. "I don't remember you, I don't remember anything—" He's going to disappoint her, this woman that used to be his sister. She'd come here expecting her brother, and instead, she'll have to settle for  _ him _ . "And I'm not Kyle, I'm  _ Owen _ , I don't even exist outside the animus."

Vicky hugs him, as tight as Haytham had a minute ago. "I don't care what you're calling yourself these days," she says. "Or who you think you are, or what you think is wrong with you. You're still my little brother." She’s crying a little (Owen hates that, without really understanding why). “You’re so--you haven’t aged a day.”

“I don’t change,” Owen says. “I’m not a person, I don’t get old or… or anything. And  I don't think I can be your brother. I don't think that's how it works, I… look, you know I died, right?" He gives Haytham a desperate look. "You did tell her I died?"

"It came up during our conversation, yes," Haytham assures him.

"We never buried you," Vicky says. "We, um… your body never turned up."

"Abstergo probably got rid of it," Owen says. "Clay says they dumped him in a river, I guess they did the same to me."

"Incinerator, actually," Haytham says. Vicky winces, and Owen catches himself feeling weirdly peeved with Haytham for saying that.  _ He  _ doesn't mind, he's very used to the idea that he's nothing but the last echoes of a dead man's brain. But that's his sister—

Shit. She is, isn't she? She's  _ really  _ his sister, he has a sister. A family, even—a past.

"Even if you can't leave here," Vicky says. "That's okay. We're family. If you can't come to me, then I'll come to you."

"Not all the time," Owen says. "You have a life, I don't—"

"No," Vicky says. "Not all the time. But enough to keep you from feeling alone."

"Thank you," Owen says. He looks from Vicky to Haytham. "Both of you. I don't deserve this."

"Of course you do," Haytham says firmly.

Owen is tearing up by the time Haytham steps back a few feet to give them their privacy. He's sniffling by the time Vicky starts chattering on about how happy she is to see him again. He's officially crying by the time she hugs him and promises to take care of him however she can.

He's been alone since the moment he was reborn into Animus Island. He'd spent years alone, then with Clay, bleeding and absolutely  _ mad _ . And after that he'd had to take care of himself—then his kids. Owen doesn't have a single memory of being loved like this, of someone taking care of him for no reason except that they love him.

"Thank you," Haytham says quietly, when it's time for him to go. "I promise, you really did help me, Owen. And I'll be forever grateful."

"No," Owen says. "I'll always be thankful for what you did for me—"

"Then I suppose we're even," Haytham says. His wide Edward-grin morphs into something sympathetic. "I owe you for my life and my mind."

"And I owe you for my family," Owen says firmly, beaming at Vicky.


	33. Chapter 33

James really loves fishing. Like—he really, really loves it. He can do it all by himself, he doesn't need help from anybody else. And he's the youngest out of nineteen people living in the house, so there’s not a lot of stuff he can do on his own, compared to everyone else. Sometimes James hates being the youngest. Geraldine still calls him the baby, even though he's  _ not  _ the baby. He's six.

And he likes fishing. Sometimes, when none of the girls will play with him, James goes down to the river all by himself. Their house ( _ this  _ house) is close to a big forest preserve with a nice river for fishing. When they first moved in, James was only allowed to go with grown ups. But everyone's busy, no one has time to sit with James all afternoon and wait for the fish to bite. So now he's allowed to walk down by himself, as long as he's careful.

Today, sitting on the bank of the river and waiting for the fish, James can let himself miss Grandpa. He doesn't remember much of Grandpa from before he got sick and crazy, but he remembers them fishing together.

But Grandpa is crying at home because Uncle Connor scared him again. James doesn't know why. Uncle Connor doesn't smile a lot, but he's not mean, and he used to be friends with Grandpa. But now most of the time when Grandpa sees Uncle Connor, he just puts his hand on his neck and cries.

It makes James feel funny to watch his grandpa crying, but he doesn't know how to talk about it. So it's easier to just come here and fish until stuff at home calms down a little.

-//-

Mom says time makes things hurt less. Maybe she's right, because when Grandpa stops bleeding and starts to get less crazy, it hurts less to be around him. People stop walking on eggshells around him. They say the old Grandpa is back, and everything's going to be back to normal now.

James doesn't remember what the old Grandpa was like. He'd been  _ five  _ when Grandpa got sick, he's  _ seven  _ now. Two years is a lot of years when you don't have that many to start with. But even if he still feels like he's not friends with Grandpa like he wants to be, at least everyone else is a little bit less worried. That makes James feel a lot better.

His fishing trips to the river are more fun now. Instead of feeling like he's hiding from something, they're just fun again. And then one day, while James is down by the river, he sees someone else's line join his in the water.

James stirs himself and looks for the owner. "Hey," he says. "You should go fish somewhere… somewhere else…"

He trails off, and stares at Grandpa. It's been a long time since Grandpa came and fished with him, and James feels suddenly tongue tied.

"Your dad said you would be here," Grandpa says. "He also said you might not mind if I joined you."

"I guess," James says.

"Thank you," Grandpa says seriously.

For a while they fish in silence. There's something comfortable and familiar about sitting here quietly with Grandpa, even though James knows they haven't done this for years.

"Are you still crazy?" James asks, when he decides the fish probably aren't going to start biting today.

"I am as sane as I will ever be," Grandpa tells him.

"What does that mean?"

"It means… yes. I know who I am. Even when pieces of my father bleed through, I can stop them if I want to. So I am sane."

"Are you sure?"

Grandpa chuckles. "Very sure. Who else would come fishing with you?"

That's true. "Did you miss fishing with me?"

"Very much," Grandpa assures him.

"Did you… did you miss  _ me _ ?"

Grandpa gives him a hug with one arm that James doesn't mind as much as he should.

"Of course I did," Grandpa says. "And I very much hope we can be friends again."

"I hope so too," James says. "Do you think… maybe we could fish again?"

"I would love that," Grandpa says. "Although I was thinking—maybe next time we could go out to a lake, maybe even on a ship."

"A boat?"

"Ship," Grandpa corrects.

James sticks his tongue out. This is like arguing with Shay or Edward. "Is it more fun to fish on a boat?"

"I'm not sure yet," Grandpa says. "But one of the things I learned when I was sick is that ships are amazing."

"Oh yea?"

"Absolutely. And I would love to show you how amazing they are."

"Really?" James asks. "You want to show  _ me _ ?"

"Definitely," Grandpa says. "And then I want to fish with you on our ship. The only thing I can think of that would make sailing better than it already is, would be if I could go fishing with you while we sail."

And James starts to feel a little bit better.


	34. Chapter 34

Grace hates fighting, she hates hurting people, but Papa has told her that he is not going to allow her to go on any missions at all until she can at least defend herself. He takes the time to teach her himself, which at least makes things a little easier, and Grace comforts herself with the knowledge that she'll never hurt anyone unless she's absolutely run out of options.

They practice sparring in the safehouse basement in the evenings, after dinner but before bed. Tonight, Grace goes down to the basement at their usual time, and she's surprised when she sees Dad there instead. He's wearing comfortable clothes, and looks sane enough. Grace almost forgets to check, because it's been so long since he last had a really serious instance of the bleeding effect. The only reason Grace thinks to check at all is that it's so unusual for him to be down here. But no, she can tell by now when he's bleeding and there's no sign of that on his face.

"Are you going to fight me?" she asks, hoisting herself onto the table in the corner they use for storing all their crap. She perches on the edge, watching with interest as her dad finishes his preparations.

"Yes," he says. "I've spoken to Shay, and he says you're coming along very well."

"I've been working hard," Grace says.

"I know you have. So tonight is going to be a test to see if you're ready to go out on missions."

"Finally!" Grace says, grinning. She's still pretty young, and she knows that if she was planning on primarily fighting instead of working more diplomatically, she probably wouldn't be allowed out for another few years. Her friends in the order are going to be  _ so  _ jealous.

"Don't get too excited," Dad warns her. "This is still a test, and just because I'm your father, don't think I won't fail you if you're not ready."

"But I am ready," Grace says. "I can't wait to show you what I learned from Papa."

"I'm looking forward to it," Dad says. "Shay's been telling me very impressive things."

"Why isn't he testing me?" Grace asks.

"Because he's training you," Dad says. "He's a little biased."

"And you're not?"

Dad smiles at her. It's good, to see him smiling so much. "Let's get started."

So after that, they spar. It's not a real fight, of course, Grace isn't trying to hurt him and he's not trying to hurt her. Dad, like Papa, is just miles and miles beyond everything Grace has learned. But people don't really learn to fight in this century like they used to, and the goal is not for Grace to learn to fight like her parents do. It's very unlikely that she'd ever need that much fighting skill. So this test, like most of her training, is just running through the moves. Grace shows what she can do, and her dad counters every single move, effortlessly. Then he throws a few blows in her direction, and Grace shows him that she can stop those—and back and forth they go, for the better part of half an hour.

Finally, Dad declares himself satisfied.

"You're definitely ready for missions," he says. "I'm proud of you, Grace."

Grace is proud of him, too. She's proud of the fact that he's himself again, and it's been ages since he last bled. She's just… she's so, so proud and happy that he's fought his way back to being her dad.

"Here," Dad says, and he holds out his hand to offer her a ring, engraved with the templar symbol. It's the second time he's given her one, but this time, Grace knows she's earned it. "If you're going on missions now, you should have one of your own."

Grace takes the ring, and slips it onto her finger. It fits perfectly. "You should have yours too," she says. "I don't need to hold onto it anymore, because you're better now."

"You have it with you?" Dad asks.

"Of course," Grace says. Normally, she wears it on a chain around her neck, under her clothes, but during training she puts it in the pocket of her running shorts instead. Now she pulls it out, undoes the chain, and hands just the ring back.

Dad looks at the ring for a moment, turns it over in his hand, and then slips it onto his finger. He's smiling. And for a second, Grace is grateful for everything that's happened. Even Dad's bleeding. It's an awful, awful thing to think, but she's never been so grateful just to have him with her. Maybe, if he hadn't been lost to them for so long, Grace wouldn't feel so overwhelmingly happy right now, knowing he's with her, he knows her, he  _ loves  _ her.

She'll never take her dad for granted again.

"I love you," Grace says, and hugs him like she'll never let go.

"I love you too," Dad says. "And I always will."


	35. Chapter 35

Grace's birthday starts with James running into her room, screaming incoherently about birthdays and cake, jumping on top of her, then running back into the hallway. Still screaming. Which means that Haytham's day starts with the distant sound of a shouting child, and then Grace coming to complain to him.

A not insignificant part of Haytham is delighted that Grace is coming to him with her problems again, even the petty ones like this. Only a few months ago, he  _ was  _ her problem.

"Dad," Grace says. "Can't you make James go back to bed so  _ I  _ can go back to bed?"

"I very much doubt it," Haytham says. "I think it's a miracle Desmond and Evie are able to get him to sleep at bedtime every night, there's no way anyone's getting him to sleep in the morning."

Grace groans, so Haytham sits up in bed (careful not to disturb Shay or Aveline) and hugs her. "Come on," he says. "It is still your birthday, after all. Let's see if we can manage to salvage it."

The two of them head downstairs, into the still empty kitchen. From the sounds of hyperactivity coming from his room, James seems to have settled down to play by himself. Haytham can hear him imitating explosions and some kind of fight.

He makes coffee for Grace and tea for himself, then sits down with her for a while to talk. It's Saturday, and they have nowhere important to be and nothing to do. Just a rare moment of calm in a rare day with nothing to do.

Shay comes downstairs while Grace is just starting to hint that hey it's her birthday and maybe it would be cool to have doughnuts for breakfast. He hugs her tight and wishes her a happy birthday. "And what are the two of you talking about?" he adds, sliding into a seat between Grace and Haytham.

"Not much," Grace says. "Doughnuts. And James waking me up too early."

"I thought I heard shouting at an ungodly hour this morning," Shay says.

"That was James," Haytham agrees.

"Good," Shay says. "Good—I've missed the old James."

 

Because James has spent the past several months cowed into silence, scared of the person the animus had turned Haytham into. And Haytham has to admit that it  _ is  _ good to have James comfortable around him again. It's hard to say he'd really missed James—or anyone else—while the bleeding was at its worst. You have to remember people to really miss them, and Haytham… hadn't. Not always. Inconsistently and selectively. But there had always been this big, gaping hole in his heart where his loved ones, his children and his grandchildren, ought to have been.

He's so happy to remember them all again.

The conversation meanders on. More and more people start to wake up, and eventually they wander down to the kitchen in search of food. Jacob tries to convince Grace she wants to go sky diving for her birthday, but she very politely declines. After a bit more talking—quite a bit, really, since there's so many of them in the kitchen by this point—Grace says that what she really wants to do on her birthday is have just a big, amazing dinner with tons and tons of food.

Which is easy enough to do, at least in theory. In practice, everyone spends the day fighting (only sometimes literally) for kitchen space, competing to see who can come up with the best food. James is underfoot for the entire morning, then Jacob (who is banned from the kitchen for being the worst cook of all of them) and Arno (who goes wherever Jacob goes) lure him away to help them cover the house in birthday decorations.

They like birthdays, this family. They're regularly exposed to violence, to hate, to some of the worst things the world has to offer—when they have something good to celebrate, they put everything they have into it.

Haytham ends up driving back and forth between the safehouse and various grocery stores most of the day. He's not much of a cook (better than Jacob, but nothing special), and he doesn't mind answering his visitors' frantic requests for last minute supplies.

Besides, it's a nice change to be able to get through a shopping trip without any of his father bleeding into him. Haytham isn't even tempted to poke open the packaging and sample the food. He doesn't change his mind about buying anything halfway through the trip and just stick the offending food back on the wrong shelf. And he doesn't take the shopping cart and start riding it down aisles until he crashes into something.

(Although a tiny part of him, a part that maybe isn't  _ entirely  _ Haytham, even after all this time, misses that last one.)

All in all, his shopping trips are remarkably normal and sane. And when he's finally done, and brings his last load home, it's time to sit down to Grace's birthday dinner. Everyone's there, crowded around a table already loaded with a truly amazing variety of foods. The room is warm and crowded and loud, and Haytham revels in the feeling of belonging that comes from just… being here. With these people, with his  _ daughter _ , celebrating her existence.

Because he'd lost her for a while, hadn't he? Now that he remembers her, now he has her back, Haytham is struck all over again by how lucky he is to have Grace in his life. Some days he's just awestruck all over again, the way he had been in the transcendent days just after she'd been born.

"I'm so happy you're here, Dad," Desmond tells him at one point. Haytham knows he means  _ here mentally _ , not physically. "Grace really missed you. We all did."

Haytham only smiles—for the moment, he's just too choked up to speak. He's  _ lucky _ , he really is. To have lost himself so completely, and still had people around him, ready and willing to pull him back together. To stay with him as the shards of his shattered self became a jumbled whole, and then slowly,  _ slowly  _ started to resemble what they had been before they were broken.

He can't believe he's back here, among them. Just his normal self, just existing as a part of the family. Not the center of attention (he's so tired of being the center of attention, of being something the others have to fix). Just Haytham. Just… himself.


	36. Chapter 36

In some ways… it's strange, but Edward has wanted to do this since first time he held his son in his arms. He'd looked down at Haytham then, his perfect little boy, and felt this surge of emotion he could not put a name to. But it made him think of long days spent at sea, of the special kind of peace that usually only comes to him on the deck of a ship. He'd wanted to take Haytham sailing from the first moment he saw him, and it's strange that it should happen now, like this, when everything is wrong.

They'd stolen the ship, first of all. So at least they'd got that much right. But it's a modern ship, small enough to be crewed by two. Still, it's a sailboat, not a motorboat. Edward closes his eyes to listen to the flapping of canvas sails around him (and the absence of the irritating drone of a motor) and can almost convince himself that everything's okay.

But then when he opens his eyes again, he remembers why nothing is okay. Because there's Haytham, leaning against the ship's railing, watching the waves and the water, Edward's soft smile curling his mouth. It's hot on deck, and both of them are wearing trousers and nothing else. Shirts, shoes, and socks lie discarded in a heap on the other side of the deck, and Haytham looks for all the world like a sailor.

Which is all wrong. He's not much of a sailor, Edward is. But—well, Edward had known when he insisted on this outing that it might trigger the bleeding effect. He'd thought… foolish, but he'd hoped it would help. Haytham has all these little bits and pieces of Edward in him, and Edward needs the sea like he needs to breathe. It calms him, clears his head like nothing else ever can, and he'd hoped it might do the same for Haytham now.

"I didn't think it would be a good idea to come," Haytham says, and although his voice is strained, it is undeniably his own. "I didn't think I could spend any time on a ship without being overwhelmed by you."

Edward frowns, and steps up to join his son at the ship’s rail. "I'm sorry—"

Haytham holds up a hand; shakes his head. "No," he says. "Don't be sorry, I wasn't done. I'm glad I came. It—all this…" He looks around him, and lets out a long, slow breath. "I wanted to see it for myself so badly."

"You mean—I wanted to see it," Edward says. "Or…the parts of me that are in your head, or—"

"I suppose," Haytham says. "But I think, in some ways, the pieces of you I have stuck in my head are part of me now." He turns to meet Edward's gaze, and his eyes are sharp and clear. "I can either keep fighting you, or I can accept that. And it's not like I'm forgetting my name anymore. I don't wake up and wonder where I am, or who I am. I know my daughter. I can live with whatever else you've left behind."

He turns back to the horizon, and makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the endless blue of the water before them. "I can certainly live with seeing the ocean like this." He sounds… awed. That's probably the right word.

Edward wants to keep arguing. He wants to tell Haytham that it's all wrong, and if he's seeing the ocean through Edward's eyes, he must still be sick. But Haytham doesn't really look sick, does he?

"Are you sure you're fine?" Edward asks, and he hates the doubt he hears in his own voice. How many times before this has Haytham assured everyone that he's alright, only to turn around and says something that makes it clear he thinks he's on the Jackdaw, or back in Boston with Charles Lee and his templars, or—

Haytham nudges him. "Don't make this odd," he says. "You can't be the more serious one of the two of us."

There's a silly smile on his face, and Edward's first, tired thought is that's not him, he's bleeding me before he realizes that's not quite his own smile, either. "Are you actually enjoying this?" he asks. But then… Maybe there's something about that smile that Edward recognizes. Something he hasn't seen since Haytham was a little boy.

"Yes," Haytham says. "Maybe I wouldn't care for all this quite so much if there wasn't a little bit of you in me—" This is a polite lie. Haytham before the animus would have been bored stiff. "But it's me that's enjoying the sea today."

"And you—you're alright, you're really… I mean, if you never got any better than you are today, then you would…" Edward bites his lip, then bursts out—"I haven't ruined you because I'm in your head, have I?"

"No," his son says, firmly. "I've exorcised your ghosts, driven away all the parts of you that keep me from being myself. I fought hard to win that fight, and at last I think that I have won. As much as anyone can win this fight, anyway." He smiles. "And as I said, the pieces of you that are left are the pieces I feel I can live with."

Edward breathes a sigh of relief. He sags against the ship's railing, feeling more relieved than he has since Haytham was first kidnapped. For a while they just stand there, side by side, father and son, watching the horizon. The wind picks up a bit, carrying the smell of the sea toward the pair. Edward perks up, and feels Haytham straighten next to him.

"If you're feeling well," he says, "what do you say we find out what's on the other side of the horizon?"

Haytham takes a sharp breath, almost a gasp, but only nods in that particularly Haytham way. Tight and controlled. "Yes," he says, and his voice is so calm he almost tricks Edward into thinking he doesn't care—only Edward is looking at Haytham's eyes, and he sees the bright spark of excitement there. "I think that sounds like an excellent idea."


End file.
